Dear Mom,

Your hands always fascinated me. You were artistic in ways I don’t think you even knew. You doodled stories out on rainy days – a line of verse or prose spoken for every line drawn – suddenly it was not longer lines or shapes, but a pig – a house! I was entranced by that ability.

Your hands comforted me. When I was sick you touched me and I was suddenly better. It is only in looking back that I remember how rough and reddened they were – how the blue veins popped up, and the translucence of your skin.

Back then, it was the touch, the heart behind the touch, that meant so much. We had a bond. Your hands touched mine – from date of birth (mine) until date of death (yours) as I begged you to tell me with a squeeze of your fingers that you knew who I was. My pleas unanswered, your hand lay limp in mine.

That night after you died I lay in my bed and I couldn’t remember if I had said “I love you” or “I’m sorry,” or begged your forgiveness for the times I caused you to raise your hands in anger more often than in praise.

I can’t go back – and you can’t come back – so I will pass my hands-on learning to my own girls and their babies and pray that it is enough.

Love carries on – your hand to mine to theirs to  . . . .

With love,

your daughter

My Mom
April 11, 1918 – October 23, 1973

photo is of my Mom and me – taken 1950 in Ohio where I was born