My Mother's Hands

I have always loved my mother's hands.
When I think about her, it is her hands that I remember.
Long, strong fingers, nails unpolished but shaped in a pointed oval.
Elegant hands, capable hands, gentle hands.

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My mother could chop firewood and haul it in, canned fruit and put up frozen vegetables,
Permed her own hair - all those little curlers and papers in the sink -
Spanked dogs and children - I think all of us kids tried wearing multiple layers of pants
so that we could get in trouble and not care if we got spanked.

My mother sewed, clever hands pinning and stitching.
Once she accidentally sewed a finger, the needle going right through nail and finger both -
I was usually at her elbow when I was small
and I saw it.

My mother was busy in the kitchen, usually,
Hands in dishwater,
Cooking,
Baking -
I, at her elbow, reaching under her arm to take the crumbs of brown sugar fallen on the counter.

She has a scar all down one thumb where she cut it with the big butcher knife
trying to chop up a frozen ham.
I remember it, watching the knife slice into flesh, the blood;
I don't think she even got stitches, just put a series of butterfly bandages on it to hold it closed
and kept cooking.

My mother played the piano,
played for herself while she sang and taught voice lessons
taught her children to play,
Demonstrating proper hand position - like you have an orange in your hand - now turn it over.

When I learned to ride a bike I rode it right into a rosebush.
My mother held me in her lap, sitting in the bathroom, and pulled rose thorns out of my hide
with her tweezers.

I learned to iron clothes from watching her,
standing at her elbow, her hands smoothing and turning the fabric
as she ran the big black iron over it.
There was always a big pile of ironing and mending
in the closet under the stairs.
I decided I wanted to iron one day - go ahead! said my mother. You think you want to iron?
I lasted maybe twenty minutes before I changed my mind.

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My mother had a habit of smoothing my face, my hair.
Her hands were cool, and smooth.

Even now, she does this,
her hands are so thin they are translucent
the light literally shines right through them so that they glow.
Her skin is the waxy white of old age and ill heath,
The veins great ropes of blue, webbing the backs of her hands.
She lies in her bed, hands reaching into the air
for something only she can see.
Her hands wring the blanket, endlessly twisting the sheet.

I say her name
She reaches up, smooths my face and my hair.

....................
I am proud of my hands. They are very like my mother's, and when I look at them
I can see hers, as they once were.
My hands are smaller, more square, browner
My nails are clipped short from days spent playing scales for students,
but still my hands are like hers.
I like them. They are capable, strong.

I reach out my hands,
I smooth my daughter's face, her hair.