Mothers Hands

It is 3:00 am February 21, 2020. I hear the all too familiar sound of supplemental air.

The air that now comforts you, and the only sound in the room.The sound that competes with our voices of love and gratitude in your ear.

I watch the rise and fall of your chest, as each breath defiantly leaves your body.

The scant movement, in the hollow of your neck, indicating the struggle of your heart.

My eyes travel to your hand. Hands of plentyThe hand that was first held, by your mother, then your lover, then your husband.

The hand, that first held, the wee hands, of your babies, and the first hand your babies held.

My heart warms.I look across your frail body to your grown Son who is now holding YOUR hand.

The firsthand he held. And now he was holding yours.The hand that made the bread, washed the clothes, that nourished and nursed.

That clapped when overjoyed, or reach out to touch and console.

Hands that prayed.

Now your soft hand is in mine, a place where it has been many many times before, speaking a language where there are no words.

My heart stirs again.

Through the softness I see the lines of age, which once were the lines of youth.

It has been hours now, but it seems like minutes, or seconds, and I am so humbled and so honoured andin awe by it.

It is 3:55 am, your last breath….I don’t want to let go.

My words to my Mother in Law Dora.

Forever a light in our hearts.