Her Hands

I could hear her. I knew she was crying. She wasn't shy about her tears. She let them flow in sadness, anger, frustration. Her eyes were often full and reflective pools of shadowy emotions.

Her tears rarely touched me. There were just so many. A currency I could afford to waste. Yes. It was cold, heartless even. But I felt my icy retreat was one fraught with purpose.

But I knew that these tears were not meant to twist my emotions or force an action. "Mom, what's wrong?"

"I can't remember her hands," she stared down at her own, flipping them over. Palms up. Palms down.

I sat down on the bed next to her and took her hands in mine. "Mom, they looked like your hands." She looked up at me. Her eyes heavy from the burden of countless tears.

How long had my mother's mom been dead? How long had my own mother been refusing to live?

I wrapped my arms around her, remembering the scent of her hair (Clairol), the softness of her skin (old school Oil of Olay). I forgot the angry exchanges, the bitter emotions my heart had been bound in for so long.

I remembered the way her voice would carry into the cramped living room. Patsy Cline songs emerging from my mother's mouth as she dried dishes while her bare feet danced around on the tattered linoleum of our 60's style kitchen. I forgot the words of anger that spewed like venom from her lips and thought about the hurt that fueled her words.

My grip on the past loosened.

I remembered the way she would grasp my hair in her hands, gently pulling back loose strands with each stroke of the brush. She loved my hair. I loved her hands. I forgot about seeing her hands clenched in anger, ready to pound her fists in the histories that denied her peace.

I remembered the way her eyes would crinkle and her mouth would curl as joy overtook her. Her body would shake with happiness and pride as she drank in her children. She relished over who we were, who we would one day be. She was not shy about sharing her treasure with the world, much to our wary embarrassment. I forgot about her drowning in sorrow. Drenched in grief, she turned away from us. Walked . . . no, ran away from us. Maybe she was just trying to save herself.

And that's when I let go. The past, the hurt, the anger, the memories that left undeniable scars . . . all of it. Slipping through my fingers.

My mother carries the weight of memories from her own childhood that no one should have to bear. Yet, she held onto the joy, the love, the brief moments of perfection that the ornery woman with flaming red hair possessed. She loved her mother. In spite of it all.

Her hands. My grandmother's hands.

When I am home with my mother, I stare at her hands. I embrace them with my eyes, tracing each line and wrapping countless memories around each finger. I won't forget. Because now I know. It is about holding on . . . and letting go.