More Hands of Time Please
The nurses settled her into a soft lounge chair and covered her with the burgundy and pink afghan my great-aunt crocheted for her decades ago, probably in the 1950s.
I had grabbed the afghan in haste when we’d packed a small bag of things for her stay at the skilled nursing and transitional facility. She was recently moved there after being in the ICU with septic shock that ravaged her organs and weakened her heart. Now, as she caressed the delicate covering with frail fingers, I knew it was the right choice. It gave her some comfort from home and family.
“I’m so tired,” she said.
“I know, Mom.”
I extended my palm, and she received my invitation as I held her soft hand in mine, tracing my thumb over her wisdom spots (Mom’s years-ago reframe for age spots).
Noticing the sharp crook of the first knuckle on her index finger—the same crooked knuckle from my grandmother’s hand—I glanced at my straight index finger and wondered if mine will crook as well. Eventually. Sooner than later. As arthritis sets in.
My mind wandered into the hands of time. It reminded me of a Thought Changer piece I wrote five years upon a milestone birthday: “When the Hands of Time Make You Cry.” It’s befitting for it to ascend in this moment, as my mother and I share our birthday (I was born on her 23rd), and I just hit another milestone.
Later, I awoke thinking about the hands of time and the gifts therein.
Midnight musings ring true:
Our hands are the markers of time.
Hands that guide. Hands that catch and release.
Hands that soothe the aches and the angst.
Hands that lead and nudge you, and others.
Hands that create and build legacy.
Hands the swing for the fences, and the hole in one.
Hands that instruct and teach; that shape and cultivate.
Hands that wipe tears and applaud readily.
Hands that hold other hands and embrace in a bear hug.
Hands that hold space.
Hands that lift children. And groceries and homes and careers and students and readers and fellow seekers.
A gripping hand can carry fear and security all at once. Our hands are our safety net, bracing against a fall, hugging someone close.
Hands that haul burdens and carry stories.
That keep us warm.
Hands that spread wide with expression and enthusiasm. And humor.
A hand at the small of the back.
A hand that leads fingers to a keyboard, guitar, or violin.
Or dipped in the cookie dough.
Or rubbing paint on a canvas.
Or following numbers in a formula.
Our hands help us learn and transfer wisdom and nutrition into our minds, hearts, and bellies.
Your hand on your heart is the gentlest prayer.
Your hand on your belly calms the nerves and the spirit.
Hands in the kitchen serve family and friends, and regularly nourish our bodies.
Our hands carry messages onto the page from our higher and inner wisdom, through the pen or the keyboard.
The hands of time hold our pasts and futures, keeping the time of our lives—the prologue, the previous chapters, the current page, and the future hopes and dreams. All held and carried in our hands of time.
Love the hand resting on our pet’s back, our child’s face, our partner’s knee, our friend’s shoulder.
Our mother’s hand.
My mom’s love language is in her hands.
She raised us, loving us, through her hands. She was known for the beautiful clothes she made for Debbie and me, including our wedding gowns. Her cooking defined comfort food and anchored our family meals. The numerous gardens she mastered and the homes she decorated with grace and love—and her hands—still are what I aspire to as home.
Gentle hands applying lotions and ointments to skinned knees, alongside my dad, who would rub the booboo with his hand while cooing, “Fix, fix.”
So, yes, the hands of time start and continue with holding Mom’s and Dad’s. Mom’s hands may shake and be soft and frail, but they are as strong as ever.
Later that day, Debbie took a photo of Dad holding her hand as well (We’re big hand-holders in our fam).
“I love holding your hand,” she said. “I miss it.”
“Me too, Sweetheart,” he said as he squeezed her fingers.
More hands of time, please.
Lovely.
Beautiful, Cindy. Sending love and holding your hand.❤️