carmen
11-2010-23, 11:01 AM
"Hold my hand!"
By Bob Perks "Hold my hand, Bobby!," she said and I did.I loved holding my mother's hand. It was
soft like a satin pillow, yet firm enough to
hold onto me when I got distracted.As I write these words I can clearly see
them reaching out for me. I want so
desperately to feel that comfort again,
not only in her touch, but the comfort
of knowing she was there.Maybe it's the approaching holidays that
have stirred up my sentimental side. I long
to wake up to the smell of the turkey roasting
in the oven. I want to watch her roll out the crust
for the pumpkin pie and butter the pan for
the excess stuffing that just wouldn't fit inside.I want to see her standing there in the kitchen
wearing a full apron, now covered with flour
and splattered with errant pumpkin mix. She
always let lick the beaters and I made a mess
of it, too.But I keep going back to her hands. What is this
vision that will not leave me? I try desperately to
see her face and immediately her hands come to
mind.Maybe it's just that she is concerned for me and
wanted me to know. Seeing her out stretched
hands brings me peace, always did.There it goes again. Soft, white hands with bluish
veins just below the surface, turning palms up
almost beckoning me to come closer for a hug.Oh, a mother's hug is like no other. I could live
there, have slept there hearing her beating heart
and feeling her warmth.Yes, maybe that's it after all.The holidays were hers. So much so that when she
died in June of that year, two weeks later a flood hit
our home. The water reached nearly to the top of
the doorway on the first floor.I discovered a pressure cooker on a shelf above the
steps leading to the cellar. When I opened it, I found
it filled with mom's homemade Christmas cookies.
Her last gift made by the same hands that call out
to me today.The same hands that wiped away my tears, cuddled my
face, scolded me, but never hit, pointed out the good
in me and in the last moments of her life gently let
go of mine.Hold someone's hand today. Tomorrow you may
wish you had."Hold my hand, Bobby."
"I never let go, Mom!"
By Bob Perks "Hold my hand, Bobby!," she said and I did.I loved holding my mother's hand. It was
soft like a satin pillow, yet firm enough to
hold onto me when I got distracted.As I write these words I can clearly see
them reaching out for me. I want so
desperately to feel that comfort again,
not only in her touch, but the comfort
of knowing she was there.Maybe it's the approaching holidays that
have stirred up my sentimental side. I long
to wake up to the smell of the turkey roasting
in the oven. I want to watch her roll out the crust
for the pumpkin pie and butter the pan for
the excess stuffing that just wouldn't fit inside.I want to see her standing there in the kitchen
wearing a full apron, now covered with flour
and splattered with errant pumpkin mix. She
always let lick the beaters and I made a mess
of it, too.But I keep going back to her hands. What is this
vision that will not leave me? I try desperately to
see her face and immediately her hands come to
mind.Maybe it's just that she is concerned for me and
wanted me to know. Seeing her out stretched
hands brings me peace, always did.There it goes again. Soft, white hands with bluish
veins just below the surface, turning palms up
almost beckoning me to come closer for a hug.Oh, a mother's hug is like no other. I could live
there, have slept there hearing her beating heart
and feeling her warmth.Yes, maybe that's it after all.The holidays were hers. So much so that when she
died in June of that year, two weeks later a flood hit
our home. The water reached nearly to the top of
the doorway on the first floor.I discovered a pressure cooker on a shelf above the
steps leading to the cellar. When I opened it, I found
it filled with mom's homemade Christmas cookies.
Her last gift made by the same hands that call out
to me today.The same hands that wiped away my tears, cuddled my
face, scolded me, but never hit, pointed out the good
in me and in the last moments of her life gently let
go of mine.Hold someone's hand today. Tomorrow you may
wish you had."Hold my hand, Bobby."
"I never let go, Mom!"