Yesterday I Took Mother’s Hand

Ok it wasn’t exactly yesterday, it happened a few weeks ago, but the feeling hasn’t left me since. Those few minutes have haunted me.

We were approaching a flight of stairs when I saw her hesitate. I stopped and watched her—really looked at her—and saw the quiet discomfort in her tiny frame. That’s when I reached out. There was no talk, no negotiation. I just reached out, as if it was the most natural thing for us. I simply extended my hand, and she took it.

And for the first time in my life, I really felt her. As I was holding her hand, I was struck by how foreign it felt in mine. I noticed the soft texture of her skin and the light weight of her bones. Her hand felt small, puffy, and fragile. It was vibrating with a slight tremor. She didn't wrap her fingers around mine but she simply let her hand tentatively rest there, limp and still. For a moment, as we began to move, it felt like I was dragging her behind me.

When we reached the top of the stairs I began to pull away, and that’s when I felt it … an ever-so-slight tightening of her grip. She wasn't ready to let go. So, we walked hand in hand, until we reached her seat.

It hit me then that I had never truly considered the physical "feel" of my mother’s hand. I searched my mind for a memory of us holding hands—any moment of simple, physical connection—and I found nothing. Just a vast, quiet blank. It made me incredibly sad.

Growing up, my mother wasn't the kind to hug or touch unnecessarily. Her emotions were never demonstrative. Her love wasn’t expressed through embrace. Her hands were rather instruments of practicality and function.

Her hands were for work.

I remember those hands working at the kitchen counter, steadily chopping vegetables. She never liked cooking, but she did it until we were old enough to take the knife from her. I can still see her wrists—stronger then—kneading bread dough with a tireless energy. Bread making was her favourite kitchen occupation. (As was cooking for her dogs.)

I remember soapy knuckles, energetically scrubbing the laundry, hand washing it because the machine could never be as thorough as she was. Sometimes it would be before going into the machine, or afterwards if, after inspection it turned out that the machine had not delivered to her standard. And this would be followed with ironing, another favoured activity.

But those hands also carried a promise of a sting.

Her hands were the enforcers of discipline. I vividly remember how quick they were to reach for the belt or a switch. Mother was never shy to use those hands to meet out corporal punishment. Fortunately for her this was a time when this was still allowed.

Her hands didn't offer much comfort when we were sick either instead they offered injections. Since she was a nurse, she often brought the ‘clinic’ home with her. I can still hear my brother’s frantic screams as she chased him through the house, needle in hand, ready for the dreaded jab.

I remember those very same hands—not soft, but clinical and efficient—scrubbing and cutting into my foot, and not-so-gently squeezing out the foul-smelling fluid that had begun to form, after I’d stepped on a thorn (playing where I had been told to not go play). As I stifled my screams, terrified of the hiding she promised if I didn't keep still, I wondered why her healing felt so much like hurting.

Every morning (at an ungodly hour), those same hands would snap the curtains open forcing the light in and would open the window letting the cold air in. It didn’t matter if it was a school day, weekend day or a holiday.

And every evening, the same hands would hold the Bible or a devotional book, guiding us through the Word, moulding our minds with the same firm pressure she used to knead her bread or squeeze pus out.

My mother had used her hands to build us, to feed us, to heal us, and to correct us. But I do not remember, not even once, my mother reaching out and simply taking my hands to just to hold me, as a sign of affection.

It was as I sat with her after the stairs that I realised how significant the moment had been. That one tiny squeeze of her hand at the top of the stairs, signalling for me to not let her go, was the first time I ever glimpsed mother’s vulnerable side.