So I looked down at my hands today, but I saw yours not mine.
You always had such dainty feminine hands. You said they looked old, and maybe that was true but the deep wrinkles, stretched over fragile skin, made them wise. If hands can be such a thing.
I looked down at my hands and saw yours not mine. I saw your hands holding the book. Guiding me through, line by line, paragraph by paragraph. I’ve always struggled to focus on reading. All the words jump around and the lines blur in to one.
I looked down at my hands and saw yours not mine. It took me back to each and every one of those moments when I just wanted to talk to you, mum.
We talked about you in therapy the other day. We talked about grief and grieving. They say it’s a process. It’s not linear but it’s a journey. When people ask if I’m still grieving my one thought is “how could I not?” I fail to believe that it is a collection of steps that passes. And even if it does it won’t bring you back. The hole in my life will always be there.
I looked down at my hands and saw yours not mine. I saw the wisdom you instilled in me. Each time I exclaim I want to talk to my mum, a sly smile crosses my face. Because I know what you’d say. I know your answer to each and every one of my questions. But I want to hear you say it.
So closely aligned, my thoughts fell so easily from your mouth. You articulated what I already knew. And you knew that I already knew, but I needed to hear you say it. And I still do.
I looked down at my hands and saw yours not mine. I almost felt the cold touch of your fingers. They were always cold. As are mine.
Two people so closely intertwined. It’s the first time, in a long time, I’ve traveled alone to anywhere other than home. And I know you’d be proud of me today as you are everyday.