I cleaned out an old bin in the garage today. It probably had several thousand old photos in it. I found a picture of my mom playing the piano. The picture was of her hands on the keys. She had such beautiful soft hands.
I made piles of the photos I wanted to keep and that was one of them. I only kept about a shoe box full of photos. And this photo was special.
I used to hold my mom’s hand a lot. Even when I was older. And when I was little I would run my fingers along her veins. Feeling the soft slightly raised surface of them. Running the length of them down her hand.
And I remember she would do this thing when she was holding my hand that soothed me. She would ever so lightly tap her clasped fingers against my hand starting with her pointer finger and going round to her thumb and back again. It was subtle and quiet and gentle.
I used to sit and listen to my mom play the piano. She was good and could read music well. She would make mistakes or fumble over her own fingers but would smile or laugh it off. She was joyful when she played. When the piano was well tuned it would absolutely fill our house with notes and chords and music. What I wouldn’t give to hear her play again. To sit on the step next to her and take her in.
Sometimes I’m surprised at how raw and just beneath the surface my longing for her is. It doesn’t feel any less painful to miss her. The tears come easily. And I try to smile and remember what a wonderful person and mother she was.
Just a picture of her hands can bring it all back. Her love. Her friendship. Her nurturing. The endless support. The full body hugs. Her calming presence.
I still hold your hands. Run my fingers along your soft veins. I remember. Always.
