Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Hands of Time

By Carol Ann Erhardt

I saw it before I felt it. The metamorphosis. The evolution of my

own

hands into the hands of my mother. There was no warning.

Graceful and elegant fingers that braided my hair, made my lunches,

and

brushed away my tears, belonged to my mother so many years ago. Frightened

animals stopped quivering when she laid her hands upon them. Those hands

prepared our dinner, set the table, and then scoured away the remnants left

behind. They rolled pie crust so delicate it would melt upon the tongue

and

scrubbed stains from our clothes with a vengeance. The iron pump handle

wielded

to her will, spilling cool water into the bucket that hung from the spout.

Her nails were carefully tended by a monthly soaking in warm soapy

water

followed by a firm scrubbing with a small brush. An orange stick pushed

the

cuticles back and a file shaped their ovals to perfection. Occasionally a

coat

of clear polish completed the ritual.

Fancy scented creams were not an option - only the sensible healing

ointments delivered by the Watkins man.

Throughout the years I observed those beautiful hands as they

ministered to

the needs of our family. As time passed, her fingers picked up needle and

thread, refusing to be idle. Under her touch, perfectly formed stitches

matured

into a plethora of colorful flowers, birds, and full-skirted ladies

adorning

pillowcases that cradled our heads at night. Her hand-stitched quilts

grace the

bedrooms of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Their beauty

warms the soul as their weight warms the body.

Friends have told friends. From far and near the requests come for

her

hand-stitched wonders. Every stitch done by hand whether creating a small

pillow or a bountiful covering for a king-size bed. Each creation is

unique, a

one-of-a-kind treasure.

Arthritis has tried to stake a claim, but her fingers defy it,

refusing to

give way to defeat. The freckles on the backs of her hands slowly turned

into

age spots, screaming that it was time to slow down. The once smooth skin

has

become thinner, the veins playing peek-a-boo. But still her hands move,

continuing to weave beauty with each newborn day.

My hands learned to braid hair, make lunches, and brush away tears. I

held

my hand out to feel the down of a bird, the sleek fur of a cat, the deep

coat of

a dog. With patience, I would hold out my hand until they would approach.

Their quivering would stop when I placed my hands upon them.

My hands can set an elegant table for company and scour the burned

pans

from my culinary attempts. I learned to roll pie crust. I once scrubbed

our

laundry, before the modern convenience of an automatic washer became

available.

Though once I fought to draw water from the pump, today I turn a

faucet and

it appears, already warm or cold, depending on my choice.

My hands pinned cloth diapers on babies and today peel off the tape to

secure a disposable diaper on my grandchildren. My fingers grace the

keyboard

of a computer, weaving words, as my mother weaves her needle and thread.

Gathering my thoughts, I look upon my hands tonight and behold the

spectacle. My mother's hands have transposed themselves to my own body.

The

fingers are still graceful, feeling from time to time the twinge of

arthritis,

but refusing to slow down. A plastic pump bottle of hand lotion sits at my

fingertips to be used at my leisure. Still, the age spots have appeared,

and I

see the veins playing peek-a-boo. I'm not sure when it happened, but the

metamorphosis is complete.

My only prayer is that the hands which belonged to me have left behind

memories which will be recalled with pleasure when my daughters notice

their

hands have evolved into mine.