Hands

There is something about the hands of people I love that inspires me to record those images in my memory bank.

I was taking a walk to get my favorite soup for lunch today and I started to think about the hands of my father.  He died a couple of years ago.  I don't know what triggered the memory.  His hands were absolutely beautiful.  He had very fair skin and they always were very clean.  I felt protected when I saw his hands although he didn't hold my hand very often. As I remembered his hands, I thought of how he did his best to be the head of the family and steer us all in the right direction.   All the pressure was on him because my mother also relied completely on him.  With such free spirits as his daughters, it was difficult for him to do much more than instill his values as the guiding light for our lives.  He definitely succeeded in doing that - although his bar was so high that sometimes my sister and I wonder whether we could be a little less strict and demanding of ourselves.

As I continued to walk, I also remembered my grandmother's hands.  She had warm and perfectly manicured hands always and, as I describe in my post titled The Ring on March 24th, she usually wore a ring that I thought was the most beautiful ring in the world.  I still think that.  Whenever I sat with her as a little girl, I would hold her hand and not let go of her hand for ours as we sat during family get togethers.  Being next to her, was the safest and most loving place to be in her entire house.

As I recalled my mother's hands, I felt sad.  She had hands that needed comfort and protection, especially since she was very ill during the last months of her life.  She had childlike hands, very expressive.  They were constantly moving.  She was very conscious that her intellect, her charm and her mannerisms could convince almost anyone of anything so she used her hands to her advantage.  She was the strongest person I ever met.  A nurse that came to visit her during the last month of her life said that my mother acted as if she was a queen.  I told the nurse, "She is a queen".  That's who she was.  As I looked at her hand in my hand a few hours before she died, I thought her life went by so fast.  It just flew by.  When I remember her hand that day it motivates me to think about my life and my priorities.

Nearing my delicious lunch place, I thought of Tim's hands.  He was my very best friend.  He had long fingers, a very elegant hand.  His hand was constantly tanned because he lived in a tropical city.  He had fingers of a pianist which is not coincidental because he wanted to play the piano his whole life.  He learnt to play as an adult out of sheer passion for the instrument and its sounds. Whenever he was in New York, we went to Carnegie Hall to hear Yevgeny Kissin or any other brilliant pianist in that league.  I can see his right hand distinctly, shifting gears, as he drove me everywhere when we started working together a few years ago.  Remembering his hand gives me peace.  It warms my heart to know that he can hear Beethoven and Mozart and many other amazing pianists whenever he wants to now.

I then thought of Lily's hands.  Lily is a little over a year old and she's my niece.  She's the most lively little girl I ever met.  She's already talking non-stop although no one can understand her.  She is also walking and dancing.  Always smiling and cajoling, much like my mother used to do.  She has very little hands which she is constantly clapping with joy.

I don't know why I thought about hands.  Maybe because they give and say so much even while remaining silent.