I love hands. I am fascinated by different types of hands and what they convey about the person. The sensitive hands of artists, the strong hands of people who work out, the stylish manicured hands showing personality. The life pulse visibly throbbing in some hands seems to indicate that person will explode with all their energy. It is a handy shorthand I developed at a young age. I notice how looking at a set of hands makes me feel. I react immediately, strongly, and emotionally to hands. Hands, and holding hands, constitute many of the little things bringing joy and happiness to me.
A few days ago, I sat next to my mom's hospital bed and held her hand. Tiny, smooth, soft, aged, wrinkled - the descriptors flew through my mind as we held on tightly. My mom's hands. She had reached out for me, spoken to me in a craggy, hoarse voice, "Give me your hand." She was ill, confined to bed after a terrible fall. "Don't leave me," she said.
"I'm here. I won't leave you," I said softly. I reached for my phone and started to play some of the music she liked, classical music she played on the piano when I was a child.
It reminded me of another time when she was in the hospital and I held her hand. This was few years ago, and I had planned to participate in the New Yorker Festival which was virtual that year because COVID shut down in person events. So, together, my mom and I listened to a conversation about music between Yo Yo Ma and another musician. Stuck in the depths of dementia as she was, she recognized the words of the classical music world and possibly even the names of the musical pieces they discussed. Then, after the conversation, the two musicians played together - cello and violin. It held her attention for more than 90 minutes.
We held hands during that video cast. I felt her hand move, twitch, and jump in response to the music. A pensive, private moment we shared, one of quietude and peace. Hands hold reminiscences for us and allow those memories to emerge when the time is right. As it was right and good to remind me of these previous hand-holding times this week when I held my mom's hand for the last time and watched her drift into the next world.
Now, I marvel about this small gift - holding hands. My reverie on the subject created a movie of pictures in my mind, thinking about all the hands I have held in my life. How the simple gesture of a person reaching out with their hand to grasp mine calmed me, rescued me, made me zing with love and happiness.
Sometimes, the hands are not human. It is handy to involve other creatures in the activity. I hold my cat's hands when we snuggle together. Like little healing pillows, their softness relaxes my entire body. Until they decide to escape to some evening adventure, that is, and I roll over to hold my dogs hands. Quite a different texture. Dog hands are rough with dramatic nails you feel instantly. A privilege to encounter a dog who allows the hand/paw holding.
There is really no art to hand holding. That fact makes it great and available to anyone. Some people are known for their greater abilities in this endeavor, as if it were a sport or something. For me, as a non-athletic person, I am excited to be acknowledged for it. It is an impossibility to achieve this alone, though.
My husband and I are recognized in our neighborhood as that couple who hold hands while walking the dogs. It is a nice thing for others to notice. People say, "Awww. I always know it is you and Steve out walking, because I see you holding hands. You are so cute, sweet..."
One day, we were watching a special holiday series on some streaming service and discovered Smittens. We had never encountered a Smitten before. The show was made in Norway, or some other cold place, and a couple on the show bought the Smittens at a market while out for a walk. What's a smitten? A pair of them consists of two mittens, and one large mitten with two thumbs so that a couple hold hands inside, feeding warmth to each other. Of course, more than warmth pulses through the shared mitten. The hands held inside experience the comfort of their loved one, the love they share, and the safety this little activity provides.
I immediately found Smittens on line when the program was over and bought a pair. My husband and I both tend to run overly warm, so it must be very cold out for us to actually use them. Even so, we start our winter walks wearing them so we can feel a bit of the beauty they offer to us.
Sitting next to my mom's hospice bed, my mind came back from its drift into all of the thoughts of hands, and back to memories of my mother's hands. I remember her playing the piano, in particular Beethoven Sonata #8, Pathetique. I saw her hands play every note of it. I remember as a little girl watching her hands play every note of it. I know every note and nuance. My mother played with great feeling. I remember the sway of her body, the motion of her arms illustrating the intensity of each segment of the music.
As I sat beside her, I thought of the beauty of her hands. Her hands emanated beauty. Artistry. The delicacy and smallness of them. The elegance of them as they flew across the keys flashing sparkles from her wedding ring. I often sat on the floor next to her favorite chair holding my breath with each movement, entranced by the beauty. Sometimes, I started dancing when a musical piece was lively. In those moments, we created art together.
I remember the intense sadness all of our family felt when she stopped playing piano, because her mind lost the ability. Damn dementia! Such a cruel, rotten affliction. It ripped away from us the joy of watching and hearing her play.
All these thoughts took hold of my mind while I sat next to her watching her breathing slow, looking for any signs of lucidity. I wanted to hear any words she spoke and share the experience of her last moments as much as possible.
I remember when I was five or six years old getting separated from my mother in the grocery store, Red Owl, and desperately trying to find her amidst the sea of ladies legs all in nylons and black pumps. They all looked the same. I was too little to look up and see the faces. Lost, I felt I was lost for all time. I panicked and cried until, suddenly, a hand reached down and took mine dragging me to the register where she was trying to finish checking out. My mother's hand. I did not need to look up at her face, I knew it was my mother's hand. I knew the feel of it, her grip, every contour of that hand. She was angry with me for wandering away and I felt that in the tenseness of her hand. Yet, I filled with gratitude and happiness to hold it, my mother's hand, my home.
I feel lost again like that day in the super market. I'm a little girl of five in a sea of people who are not my mother. Yet, my hand remembers. My hand holds these memories of mom, Steve, and many others whose hands brought meaning to my life. How long will my hand hold these memories? They will live in my palm until holding my hand is just a memory for another person, I suppose.
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