Originally Posted by PoisonIvy
I wrote this little story during the last weeks of my mother's life late last summer and gave it to her (basing it on the famous one of Grandpa's Hands) but putting in all the things that had meant so much to her and who she'd been during her life:
MY MOTHER’S HANDS
My elderly Mother sat feebly in her hospital bed. She didn't move, just sat with her head down staring at her hands. When I sat down beside her she didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat the more I wondered if she was okay. Finally, not really wanting to disturb her but wanting to be sure at the same time, I asked her if she was all right.
She raised her head, looked at me and smiled.
"Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking," she said her voice quiet and reflective.
"I didn't mean to disturb you Mum, but you were just sitting there staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were all right" I explained.
"Have you ever looked at your hands?" she asked. "Really looked at your hands?” I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, on reflection I suppose I never had really looked at my hands other than when I filed my nails or applied hand cream when they were dry and tried to figure out the point she was making.
My Mother smiled and then told me this story:
"Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have and how they have served you well throughout your years.
These hands of mine though now wrinkled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and embrace life in every way.
They caught my fall when as a toddler I stumbled and fell upon the floor.
They have put food in my mouth and fastened my clothes.
They’ve tied my shoe laces and pulled on my boots
And, as a child, my own Mother taught me how to fold them in prayer.
Over the years, they have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bleeding
But they always did what they were required to do when needed.
Decorated with a wedding ring, they showed the world that I was married and loved by someone special.
Gently clumsy, as I reached out to hold my firstborn child - you.
Over the years, they’ve written many letters to my family back in Austria,
Became sore and stiff with the hours spent sewing yours and your sister’s wedding dresses,
Trembled and shook when I was at the funerals of your Grandmother, your Father and then a dear friend,
Yet, they were strong and reassuring when I held my own Mother close when she was freed from a Concentration Camp during the war
And when they milked the cows on the farm where I grew up as a child.
Over the years, they have held children, consoled friends and neighbours, cared for the sick, enabled me to be a loving wife and mother, run a home and tend a garden
They have covered my face, combed my hair and washed my body.
They have been sticky and wet, bleeding and sore, dried and raw.
And also clenched into fists of anger when I didn't understand.
But now when not much of anything else of me works really well anymore,
These hands still hold me up, lay me down and especially now, fold in silent prayer despite the fact I no longer hold the beliefs I once did as a child.
These hands are the mark of who I've been and all that they have experienced in my life.
But most important, it will be these hands that will reach out to all those I have loved when it is my time to return home.”
She became quiet her story had ended and she again sat still, her head bent down and her hands folded.
I knew then that when the time came to watch her hands and when she opened them and reached out I knew that would be when my Father had come to take her home.
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