The Hand That's Not Yours

The picture is not of my mother's hand. 

It's a stranger's hand, an anonymous woman's palm pressed flat against a sea of grainy white-gray snow. 

The fingers are gently stretched straight. Waves of wrinkles rise over knuckles, like maybe the joints feel a little slow and stiff of late. The nails are short and rounded – practical but well kept – and ever so slightly discolored in silent acknowledgement of mature age. Three tendons stand out in ridges on the back of the hand, a testament of strength. Against a background of tawny skin, roadmaps of blue-green veins crisscross, telling of all the places it's been. 

The hand is held next to the imprint of a wild animal's foot – bear or wolf, I can't remember – to illustrate the awesome size and impact of nature. But it's not the paw I care about. I've cropped most of the footprint out of the picture like so many forgotten details. 

I desperately want to hold that hand. 

I want to reach through the flat picture and touch 15 years ago, clasp the hand between my own and press it to my chest like I'm holding on for life. I want to bring those cold fingers to my warm lips and kiss them alive, whispering over and over I miss you.

I keep the photo of this nameless woman's right hand because its resemblance to my mother's is uncanny. Each time the picture suddenly resurfaces, my heart is gripped with surprise and recognition, confusion and longing sharp enough to cut stone. For the briefest moment I think she can't be gone, because I must have snapped this picture of her. And where is her ring, that ridiculous silver curl around her finger I never understood, the one that looks like the filigreed end of a spoon? 

The skin color and texture, size, shape, even the fingernails on this hand are so similar to my mom's that I could easily mistake them for the woman who raised me and then took her leave. I could easily imagine that this hand is not demonstrating the scale of a wild animal paw, but was actually photographed one gasp before a fall into an oblivion of soft white snow from which she never dug out. 

My mom's hands weren't always so worn and tired. From my childhood I remember long fingernails painted shimmering coral, only to be used as screwdrivers and scrapers. I remember her agile hands hammering a post into wet dirt to create a makeshift fence in our backyard. I remember the gentle strength of her palms rubbing my back as I cried over so many lost things. 

Hers are the hands I pulled on when I was a child, that I pushed away as a teen, that I let go of in a hushed room of a funeral home when I was 26. Hands that prepared my breakfasts and applauded at my school concerts, but I rarely paid enough attention to. I should have seen that they were the source of countless instructions, whether she meant them to be or not. 

Three lessons are unforgettable.

How to softly carry what you love: Cup gently in the palm with enough support to provide safety and encouragement; don't grip the fingers so tightly that you crush what you hold. If the thing you love feels enveloped but still free, you're doing it right.

    Best used for: First pairs of baby shoes, a newborn rabbit kit rescued from the cat's sharp teeth, and creased letters sent from a cold college post office.

How to hold on to a rope that's unwinding: Keeping your fists close together, clenching the rope as though you're drowning. Heave yourself upward, hand over hand. You will sweat and slip and rub blisters on your palms, but you must stay at least six inches above the unraveling. Giving up is not an option.

    Best used for: Disconnect notices from utility companies, a career as a teacher, and white cigarettes with a cherry ash tip and a curl of smoke drifting from the end.

How to let things go: Open your hands and let love fall from your aching palms. Stretch your arms wide and fly. 

    Best used for: Golden wedding rings that have long lost their luster, beloved pets whose names are being called at the rainbow bridge, children who have grown too big to hold, and mothers who can't hold on any longer. 

Everything a mother can do with her hands stays with me through this picture that is not of my mother. I speak to those hands like a ghost speaks to a memory.

I remember you, Momma – the thick fudge you stirred, the bright roses you tended, the rough miles you walked and your papery skin as you held my hand all the while.

I remember how you clawed uphill until the rocks finally gave way.  

This picture of a hand that's not yours reminds me that you should have grown old. You deserved to cup the wonder of life in your palms instead of constantly grasping at survival.

Because you can't, I will hold life for you. Years from now when I see you at the gates of Heaven, I will show you all you missed.

This essay originally appeared in the Moms Who Write anthology The History of Us: Stories of the Women Who Made Us. It is available for purchase on Amazon.