Hands

Tonight, Abby’s strong, slighter but still slightly pudgy hand grasped my own, age-spotty, bony one, which boldly shows my 37 years of living. As she traced the blue veined topography of my hand, I was transported back to admiring my own mother’s veined timepiece, feeling her knuckles (and even the spot where there isn’t a knuckle because of long-ago dog bite). When I was young, I coveted her hands and wished that my own, flawless yet immature hands could look like hers. “Be careful what you wish for…”, my mom said. I did not heed her advice and now I have the same, time-tested hands. As I remembered these long-ago moments with my mom, I felt my past intertwine with Abby’s; I felt as if Abby was me and I was my mom, 30 years ago. We were suspended somewhere between past and present. I bounced back to the now, with my fingers intertwined with my daughter’s, when she announced that she wants her hands to look like mine.

Henry’s dimpled, pudgy hands still hold the silky texture of fresh, new skin. I adore holding his hand, rubbing its silkiness like a talisman. Tonight, I lay on his bed as we whispered goodnight sweet nothings. His hypnotic hands rhythmically stroked my hair and almost put me to sleep. Later, I went to check on him. And I stared as his hands, calmly resting, regaining energy for tomorrow’s expidentures. The dim, soft nightlight cast shadows in his dimples. I felt still and the moment paused to imprint itself to my memory.

I see my children’s hands, any hand, and see life illustrated. Hands can bring past moments alive by seemingly suspending time. I hope I can oblige in years and moments to come, by recanting hundreds of snippets and synapsed recollections of our lives. Soft hands, dirty hands, hands with finger-nails needing trims, sticky hands, angry hands, forgiveness-seeking hands, feverish hands, holding hands, story-telling hands, independent hands, loving hands. Promise-filled hands, hopefully still periodically reaching for, and holding onto mine.