My Mother’s Hands
When did this happen?
My hands have become my mother’s hands.
I see her when I pass storefront windows,
pause to look at size zero mannequins
with flawless hands wearing clothes
I can neither fit in nor likely afford.
Reflections in the plate glass are surely not me –
that woman’s shoulders are slightly curved,
her thumbs tangled with arthritis,
her palms a map of lines and intersections,
blue veins and tendons slip sideways
as her fingers move over the computer keyboard.
My mother’s hands flew across the keys
of her black manual Underwood typewriter
as she wrote poetry and political protest.
I’d stand beside her left shoulder
mesmerized by the speed of her fingers,
keys jumping out and hitting the ribbon –
magically leaving letters on the paper.
She’d let me pull the carriage back
after the bell dinged at the end of a line.
I see my mother’s hands guiding mine
as I learned to bridle a horse;
once in the saddle she wove the reins
through my fingers and thumbs.
My mother played Schumann’s
Scenes from Childhood every night,
taught me Chopsticks and Hannon Exercises,
my small hands with chewed nails
beside her neatly clipped and filed ones;
I see her hands adjusting the angle of her hats –
straw ones, felt ones, wide brim, cloche,
soft cotton ones at the beach,
a few feathers and bits of sparkle when attending
the Metropolitan Opera in Atlanta each spring.
I spent a summer in France sewing hats
on a treadle Singer sewing machine
for the Fetes et Jeux du Berry,
learned to synchronize my hands and feet
fashioning elegant ladies bonnets,
red cardinal hats, military caps.
When my children were young
I made them elaborate jester costumes,
hats with tentacles and bells.
My mother sewed on lost buttons.
I see my mother’s hands after she was divorced,
took off her gold wedding band
with a sheaf of wheat engraved into it.
She filled her fingers with new rings –
amethyst, coral, topaz, turquoise.
After my husband died I wore both
of our wedding rings, side-by-side
for more than a year – I gave my husband’s ring
to my older daughter at her college graduation,
gave my handmade gold ring to my other daughter,
a talisman to make her safe.
People stared at my naked left hand, or so it felt.
My children bought me a thin gold ring
with tiny diamonds between horizontal bars;
I wear it every day
on the middle finger of my left hand.
I see my mother’s hands cradling
my first two children as newborns,
their tiny fingers grasping hers.
I see her hands, stoke-like disabled
after her heart stopped during surgery,
unable to hold my third child.
I trace my hand in a family journal,
trace the hand of my first grandchild
inside of mine and date it.
I will trace the hands of all my grandchildren
and I will teach them Chopsticks
on my mother’s Steinway piano –
but first they must wash their hands
with Ivory soap and warm water
as she always made me do
before touching the black and white keys.
© Red Clay, Eve Hoffman