Her hands lay still in her sleep but upon awakening they are unsteady, jerking involuntarily, as if God is using her as a puppet. At this moment though I hold them. Her body and mind is exhausted, so I know she will not wake. I observe the hands that were once strong, steady, and held me when I was a child. Hands of comfort and security. Hands that provided a living, nourishment, safety, and love. They are the hands that raised her children, and now lay before me bruised from a recent fall. They are like a painting from a child or maybe Jackson Pollock, either is mesmerizing, meant to be studied. It’s as if droplets of purple, blue, and brown have been perfectly placed from a paintbrush hovering just above the tops of her hands, leading to wrinkled, bony fingers, and thin wrists. The blue veins are like rivers on a map and have provided life and direction to many.
I watch her as she sleeps and am unsure how to feel. I want to cry. I do, but it’s as if something has plugged up my tear ducts, so the emotion stays in, just on the surface, ready to flood out of me at any moment. I am numb. I am numb as I look at her face, one that has aged and held onto the pain from the last few years and never let it go. I am numb because her face is mine and I see myself as she lies there. Part of me is frightened by this and part of me is proud. Before she slept she said, “I’m not done yet. I have writing to finish. I want to see my kids and make sure they are all happy. I just am not finished yet.” I have rarely seen this type of grit and determination. Well, maybe I recognize it because it has been taught and never unlearned. Her hand squeezes mine for a moment and I look up to see if she is awake, but she is not. Does she feel what I am feeling? Our energy is flowing and I want to give her my strength. A mother knows when her children are near. What I recently found was that a son knows when his mother is not well, even when he is an ocean away. There is too strong of a connection for either of them not to not sense when the other has become vulnerable.
Perhaps, we are at a new phase of this slow death? One where she cannot stand anymore, where her mind is trying to will itself to perform and function but her body is pulling her back down telling her, “It’s time to rest.” Rest? Rest is something that she has struggled with most of her life. She worked with her hands. Hands that made a living. Hands that provided a roof over our heads and food on our plates. She has her mother’s hands. I wonder for a moment if she is reminded of her mother everytime she looks at them, as I am everytime I fold mine together and see my father’s hands? Like me, do her hands provide a memory, one that we must accept because our hands go with us everywhere?
As I look down at my hand holding hers I briefly wonder, “how can I let go?” How can I stand and let go of her hand? Letting go will be difficult. However, I have accepted what is happening as much as I can. I know the outcome. I know that I will one day never be able to hold her hands again or look at them from this angle, so close, so near. Yet, one can never forget the hands that raised them. That provided so much.
Is this poetic journey coming to an end? No one can be sure. Though, she seems to be certain that it is not over. She said she is not ready yet and I have never seen my mother’s stubbornness submit. In our recent talks, I remind her that her life has been fulfilled. Her duty as a mother has been completed. And, to answer her question, her children are happy, and if they are not, it is by their own choice. For we do not need much to be happy. I tell her, “If we have love, if we have nourishment, if we have shelter, if we have health, we have little excuse to not be happy. If we are mindful and aware of our joy and suffering, we will be okay.” She smiles at this, telling me how much I have taught her through the years. As she says this, she grasps her hands, trying to hold them still, and stop the shaking and uncontrollable movements. I do believe that we are all here, walking this earth, on a journey, to provide one another with lessons. We are here to learn from one another and become more self-aware through the process. Her hands have been a textbook of how to build resilience and survive the struggles and suffering that life will deliver.
As I look down at our hands one more time before I let go, displayed before me are the textures, the roughness, the experiences, and the gentleness. For a moment, I am confused by this illusion because I cannot recognize which is her hand and which is mine. Maybe I have my mother’s hands.

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