Story posted on March 9, 2009 at 4:00 AM
I first remember
my mother's hand
holding mine.
Her hand
was soft, silky and warm
and also felt safe,
like home.
I then remember
my mother's hand
Once again,
holding mine,
Teaching penmanship.
Now her hand,
while silky and warm,
Was suddenly firm,
gliding over the paper,
guiding.
I also remember
my mother's hand
On my forehead,
my head burning.
This time her hand,
silky and soft,
was miraculously cool.
So comforting and soothing,
healing.
At the end I remember
my mother's hand
When mine was doing the holding.
Her hand was still
silky and soft,
But also heavy and hot,
on fire.
The last time I touched
my mother's hand
It was cold and hard,
like ice.
And, indeed, it was.
And after that,
I never touched
My mother's hand
again.
But I try to remember it
being soft, silky and warm
And feeling safe,
like home.
Originally appeared in Jewish Currents magazine, May/June issue, 2007