Her Hands
I tried desperately to memorize the feel of her soft hands as I held them for the very last time.
They had been so gentle with me my whole life. Her hands were handsome, not beautiful the way the world calls beauty. They were especially handsome when she put nail polish on – she had strong hands and fingers, worn, muscular, feminine.
I always loved the look of her gigantic diamond ring on them – her fingers wore them well. She worked hard— harder than any woman I have ever known. She never frittered away time – her hands were busy, knitting a baby blanket, crocheting roses on to a wedding blanket, writing a will, typing an article, cooking, baking, cleaning. Her hands drove me to countless basketball and volleyball games, spending time with me in the car.
She had long before, the first time we left home for Afghanistan, given me permission to never return and see her again. She had released me from the normal familial obligation to care for her in her old age, and then when she got sick with cancer, she released me from caring for her to her death.
She knew my place was next to my husband, and we had been called to Afghanistan during the time of the Taliban. She let me, her 4th baby, take my first baby away from her to that war zone. She never whimpered or complained, but gave me her blessing.
She wrote to me in January of 2006, and asked if I could come home...now would be the last time to see her before she died. She often told me not to bother about coming home for her funeral. So I traveled half way around the world to spend my last few precious days with her.
I held her hands, and tried to memorize them with my eyes and fingers...It wasn’t enough time.
I finally had to tear myself away – the children and dear husband needed me. We had to go back. In her bedroom doorway, I couldn't help not turning around one last time to my mom on earth.
As she lay on her bed, too weak to get up, a tear ran down the side of her head as she said “I love you one last time” with her eyes. I was only 36, she was only 65, but in a few weeks, she’d be dead, and I would be in Afghanistan. It's my last glimpse of mom which stays in my memory.
I miss her hands.
Mine are getting like hers – as I age, I see the veins and the spots. I want mine to age so they look like hers. I miss her so. Maybe if my hands look a little more like hers, I’ll feel her closer to me.
I miss her.
I tried desperately to memorize the feel of her soft hands as I held them for the very last time.
They had been so gentle with me my whole life. Her hands were handsome, not beautiful the way the world calls beauty. They were especially handsome when she put nail polish on – she had strong hands and fingers, worn, muscular, feminine.
I always loved the look of her gigantic diamond ring on them – her fingers wore them well. She worked hard— harder than any woman I have ever known. She never frittered away time – her hands were busy, knitting a baby blanket, crocheting roses on to a wedding blanket, writing a will, typing an article, cooking, baking, cleaning. Her hands drove me to countless basketball and volleyball games, spending time with me in the car.
She had long before, the first time we left home for Afghanistan, given me permission to never return and see her again. She had released me from the normal familial obligation to care for her in her old age, and then when she got sick with cancer, she released me from caring for her to her death.
She knew my place was next to my husband, and we had been called to Afghanistan during the time of the Taliban. She let me, her 4th baby, take my first baby away from her to that war zone. She never whimpered or complained, but gave me her blessing.
She wrote to me in January of 2006, and asked if I could come home...now would be the last time to see her before she died. She often told me not to bother about coming home for her funeral. So I traveled half way around the world to spend my last few precious days with her.
I held her hands, and tried to memorize them with my eyes and fingers...It wasn’t enough time.
I finally had to tear myself away – the children and dear husband needed me. We had to go back. In her bedroom doorway, I couldn't help not turning around one last time to my mom on earth.
As she lay on her bed, too weak to get up, a tear ran down the side of her head as she said “I love you one last time” with her eyes. I was only 36, she was only 65, but in a few weeks, she’d be dead, and I would be in Afghanistan. It's my last glimpse of mom which stays in my memory.
I miss her hands.
Mine are getting like hers – as I age, I see the veins and the spots. I want mine to age so they look like hers. I miss her so. Maybe if my hands look a little more like hers, I’ll feel her closer to me.
I miss her.
