Page 22 - Contrast1998
P. 22
My Mother's Hands
Joy K. Hoffman
Even inside the little church it was chilly, so the one thing I can do to make my hands move
I snuggled deeper into my winter coat on the smoothly as my mother's.
pew. After an entire summer and autumn of
coming to St. John's in the evenings, it still felt Colored light from the stained glass win-
like an adventure--somehow mysterious!--to dows sparkled and broke on her face, on her
be just the two of us in God's house. moving hands. Today her polish--on her fin-
gers and my young ones toc--was a beautiful
"Are you ready?" my mother's voice was rose red, in honor of the occasion. It was the
thin through the high cold air. "Don't be last time we would come together to St. John's;
startled." the weather was getting too cold to walk, and
we still didn't have a car. When I graduate
And then the music started, rich and a little middle school, my father promised we would
scary. Even knowing it would come, I jumped. have enough saved up to buy a used car. Till
I could barely see my mother, up on the dais, then, since my mother substituted at my
but I could make out the swift sure move- school, and the neighborhood was still nice,
ments of those hands over the organ keys. it was not unpleasant to walk. And after
school, we'd make dinner and come to play
I always envied my mother her hands. Her the organ. She told me it was her relaxation,
fingers curved surprisingly, resting on each playing music. A cocky seventh-grader, I told
other in ways my own boring fingers could her I understood, that I knew the kind of stress
not. My father said that she'd been scarred as she meant.
a little girl, in an operation to remove extra
fingers. His own were thick, finger ridges
calloused smooth from his construction work.
I never saw my parents hold hands. It never Her fingers curved suprisingly,
occurred tome that my mother's hands were resting on each other in ways
anything but special. She never hid them,
painted her nails brightly every day. In my my own boring fingers could
adoring eyes, her nail polish was a kind of not.
magic: different colored bottles like jewels,
waiting in her drawers for the knowledge of When I was younger, my father used to walk
her touch. my mother to the church, leaving me with a
baby-sitter. By sixth grade though, he was
God knows I tried to imitate her. I simply working odd hours building the new post of-
could not twist and spread my normal fingers fice and my mother walked alone. But I was
enough to make the music happen. Even af- secretly delighted when the baby-sitter was
ter the patient lessons of Mr. Frost, the piano finally too expensive and my mother took me
teacher, I never got beyond a stilted Fur Elise. with her.
My father stopped coming to my practices,
tired of hearing the same ten notes over and A touch on my shoulder nearly scared me
over. But worse than that was my mother's out of my skin. It was Mr. Frost, wearing a
forgiving smile. Persistent that I should make bright red scarf. He tapped his cane gently
my hands useful, though, my mother had on the side of the pew. "Is this seat taken?"
made me learn typing. I was the only girl in he asked politely, taking off his scarf. I giggled
seventh grade who could type 62 words per and scooted over.
minute, or who knew anything about Chopin.
I think that's why I love writing, to this day: I had always thought he was old+really old,
the way only an eight year old taking piano
20
