Happy Mother's Day to all the moms out there--God bless you all! My mother passed away a few years ago and I still miss her. Below is a repost of a story I wrote before she had passed away.
My Mother's Hands
I remember as a child watching my mother crochet. The slim silver hook darted in and out of the thread
stitches, like a humming bird retrieving the nectar from a flower. I could watch her for hours creating beautiful doilies, afghans, and clothes for my dolls. Just like a bedtime story, I would lean on her left shoulder and eventually fall asleep.
When Mother felt I was ready, I was ten years old, she put a hook and yarn in my hands. There was no stopping me. I made my own doll clothes, scarves, and ponchos. I branched out to knitting, embroidery, macramé, and various types of lace making. Everyone I knew – family and friends – all had something I made just for them.
I grew up and made baby sweaters and blankets for my own babies. Mother beamed and bragged with each one of my creations. That was when I noticed she had stopped crocheting, but with two children of my own and a full time job, I never questioned why she had stopped.
One day, Mother said she wanted to crochet. We went to the store, bought plenty of yarn in her favorite color of purple, found an easy afghan pattern, and dug out a hook from my stash.
My heart broke when she held the hook in one hand, the yarn in the other, and gave me a helpless look. She could not remember what to do! She could not make sense of the pattern. We spent an afternoon learning how to crochet. The next day she once again forgot what to do. We decided that her arthritic hands could not hold a hook anymore. I took everything home with me, ripped out all she had done, and made the afghan for her.
Mother still has that afghan. It rests at the end of her bed at the nursing home. Mother would look at it and admire the handiwork of the person who made it.
Now, Mother does not notice much of anything. You see, she has Alzheimer’s disease. She spends her days and nights sleeping or staring at nothing in particular. Her hands set on her lap, occasionally moving. I like to think she is crocheting.
During my last visit with her, I looked at her gnarled and arthritic hands, remembering those days of watching her crochet. Then I looked at my hands and at my daughters’ hands. Three sets of hands that continue the legacy of my mother’s hands.
