My Mother's Hands

When I was little, I remember so few things. Now that I’m older, I regret not being able to call upon the very memories I took for granted. I’m sure my earliest was that of my brother peering through the bars of my crib checking out his new sister. His face was jammed in between two with a huge smile from ear to ear while his hands held onto two other bars as if in jail. Mom used to tell me stories of when that little man would do unspeakable things to his sister from dragging her around the house by her long hair to his Peter Pan-ish ability to convince that gullible girl she I could fly…right out the third story window of our English home.

Years later, I remember slipping my fingers into Mom’s hand after that stinker threw a snowball right at me. She was to protect me from that boisterous little boy, protect me from everything…Not only did she hold my hand but she held my little world. There came a day when she couldn’t prevent the harm done to me and on that hand she held was a scar I still have nightmares about even at the age I am now.

There was this particular Easter, Mom bought me this frilly pink dress (yes me in pink) and little white gloves to wear. I felt like a princess with my hair all done up and ruffles to boot. I remember her silhouette as we walked hand in hand up the steps of the church as I looked down at my shiny shoes one step at a time. Her hair was long and straight and the ends blew with the breeze, on her face was a smile as she removed a stray strand from her face. 30 some odd years later I look in the mirror and the very face I see is the same I remember smiling down at me. You wouldn’t think a person could have such vivid thoughts but as I mentioned before, they were select things. I didn’t remember the rest of the people or events, just little tidbits here and there but mostly it was when I was with my Mom.

She’s held my hand through out my life. My mom was my best friend. Her hand held mine through tears and laughter, through adversity and despair, through life and death…My hands, small compared to hers, wasn’t strong enough. Being held up by her helped me through some very rough times.

I’m sure if you asked her, she’ll say we kids grew up fast. We became independent and when it came time to move on, we didn’t need the hand to guide our steps. As a parent, I’ve come to realize the better we do our job, the less our children will rely on us. My goal as a mother is to send each of my children out into the world as capable, confident adults who are not afraid to seek out their dreams because I have taught them, strengthened them and provided for them well, emotionally, physically and spiritually. I’ve already experienced the growing pains as my own little boys have become little men. The little hands that clenched my finger have become larger and now fit into my own hand.

These days, it’s not my hand that she holds, for my children have beaten me to the mark. It is they who scramble to Grandmama and slip a hand in hers. These days, this woman who believes she’s not strong enough to meet the day is, in my family’s opinion, still strong enough to hold not one but three worlds.

The other day she came to see me. We worked a yard that had suffered from years of neglect; weeds had grown tall and tangled among the flowers we had planted with our own hands. My negligence was just as personal in my life as it was in my garden. The thorns that pricked and made me bleed were just as painful as the thorns I wore about my existence. After just one day, we noticed the improvement as our hands were stained and filthy. The next day she arrived with 2 pairs of gloves to protect our very sore fingers and I laughed at the size my mom wore. A child’s glove…

I placed my hand on hers to compare and noticed hers fit easily in mine and how soft her skin still was. It was so contrary to when my own were small and fragile. I flashed back to the day that I grabbed her hand in fright, in desperation, and in direction. My mother’s hands were a safe haven, my strength, my world. For 38 years my Mother held my hand, for 38 years she held up my world, especially when it spun out of control. Holding her hand that day, I recall the little girl in the pink dress with hands gloved in white and how she walked me up the steps to a greater place.

She claims her hands have grown tired and weak. Looking down at my own, I see that mine are shaky and my fingers are calloused and scarred but I believe they are strong enough and it is my turn to hold my Mother’s hands.