The Reflection Pool

I suppose there are more spots on them now. They have more wrinkles. Some days they are cracked with the open sores of eczema. The tips of her fingers are slathered in Neosporin and wrapped up in Band Aides. She says to me, “Hon, come cut these tomatoes.” Knowing how much it hurts her hands when the acidic juices reach the cuts, I pick up the knife. Before I cut into the red ball, I look down. For a brief moment her hands are healed. I cut into the tomato, its juice is every where and I marvel, there’s no pain yet.

There are two veins that sit atop the bottom knuckle of her thumbs. They run parallel with each other and down the length of her thumb but are only obvious at the joint. Her thumbs are perpetually curved ever so slightly in towards her palms. They are never still. They twitch at random, never aware of their movement unless you are staring at them. In constant motion but never keeping time.

Some times, even now, she reaches out to hold my hand. An unobtrusive gesture. As she sits by me at the table or on the couch, she reaches out and gently lays her hand in mine. The skin dry but always warm. She gives my hand a squeeze and then pats my palm as she pulls her hand away as if she realized that she is holding the hand of a grown woman, no longer the small girl I used to be. Her wish to be close wins out and she settles her hand back in my palm, all but her thumb soothe the child that even now lives in both our hearts.

I trace the veins on the top of her hand with my finger, remembering this was once a favorite thing for me to do as a child. I follow every vein as far as I can and travel back to her wrist. Slowly, I take the next path, and then the next. She smiles, recalling the same memory. Leaning over slightly, she rests her head on my shoulder. I rest my head on hers, still following the paths of childhood.

It is quiet.

I am sitting on the couch alone. Picturing her hands, wondering what I have missed. I can see them wielding needle and thread as she counts stitches. I see them kneading bread, rolling out dough for Christmas cookies. I see their action as she scolds one of us kids. I see them as she reaches across the table for her scissors. I feel them tap my back as we hug. I feel them as she holds tighter not wanting to let go. I see them. They are resting in my lap.

Her hands are never any older than mine.

(This may be familiar to a few, but it is updated and improved.)