My Mother's Hands

My mother’s hands were slim and tapered and were soft as velvet. It was a sign of being feminine and petite she used to tell me. “Your manicure reflects the type of person you are”, she used to say. Hers were sleek, softened with hand cream, meticulously primed and precisely shaped.

Mom used her nails as an insignia. They were unusually hard and extremely strong. She would intentionally tap them on the tabletop to accentuate the beat in a rhythm or create the pattern for a rhyme. It was her way of getting attention.

My mother’s nails shone vibrant colours. As the times changed, so did the hue. Red, brown, white, green polish covered the smooth sloping curve of the enamel. Her nails conformed to the era.

Sometimes, her hands looked smooth and supple and I knew she was calm and rested. When she had time to ‘do her nails’ they reflected the attention that she was able to give them. Sitting close to a table with emery board in hand, she strategically placed a Kleenex sheet close by to clean up any mistakes as she worked. The two small bottles of polish sat nearby…one clear for the undercoat and nail hardener, the other whatever colour she had chosen for the week.

My mom grew up wealthy in a time when wealth was unusual for a Jewish immigrant family. Her father provided well for her and her older sisters and mother. As a furrier, his emigration from Poland proved to be lucrative. He got here earlier than most of the Jews of his time, and as a young man, learned the trade of buying and selling furs. He knew how to mingle with and socialize with those of influence and wealth. He knew how to look polished and sculpted and to gain acceptance from a culture that relied on first impressions and that formed opinions based on visual presence. Morris learned to do what was necessary to fit in.

And money was important. Rose, my mother’s mother, wore wealth on the outside of her body. Proudly she walked through the streets of New York wearing furs and diamonds. Her solid, strong, poised body reflected a false pride through her adornment. She wore her wealth with ease, hiding the inner poverty that plagued her soul.  My mother’s mother taught her to glide through her world without having to deal with the inner issues of life.

 

The Depression crashed my mother’s family’s world. As my mother grew up, manicured fingers and polished nails helped disguise the ragged, bruised and bleeding state of their lives. What could not be displayed on the outside remained buried.

My mother learned to stuff her worries within. “Make sure that you don’t get involved.” “Keep your secrets to yourself.” “Mind your own business.” “Blend in with the crowd.” “Don’t make a scene.” “Present yourself well.” That’s why my mother’s hands always looked so delicate and vulnerable and tense.  So was she. The manicure could not hide what I knew to be true.

Years have passed. My mother’s hands tell another story.  They lay quietly in her lap. The palms face upward and her fingers are spread as an offering to the heavens. She sits upright in her cushioned seat, both feet planted firmly on the floor in front of her. Her eyes are gently closed as her head tilts slightly down.

When I ask mom now what she is doing when she is in this posture, she quietly answers “Nothing”. “Are you sleeping?” I persist. “No,” she says. “Are you thinking, then?” “No,” she continues.

“Then what are you doing, mom?”

“Nothing,” she insists.

I have come to understand what my mother does as she sits quietly all day. She sits content in a state of calm and meditation. She is happy. For the first time in her life, my mother is satisfied to simply sit. She no longer needs to paint her nails and show something to the world. She doesn’t have to be doing something all the time. And she need not present her self.

My mother’s hands no longer shine with colour. They don’t wave the way they used to and the pale dry flesh is blotched with brown spots of age. The skin around the nails is soft and smooth, and the cuticles no longer bleed and crack. She doesn’t paint her nails with bright colours any more. My mother’s hands lay natural and soft. The skin hangs loosely on her knuckles. They are beautiful and real…my mother’s hands. Just the way God intended them to be. Just the way she is.