The Hands of My Time
Thoughts by Judy Lyle, March 2024
I have always had a fascination with hands. When I was little I would trace the veins of my Nana’s hands – old, rubbery looking hands, with skin so loose I could pinch it between my fingers. I would take the warm and fleshy hand of my Aunt Mamie in mine and she would smile. I would look forward to seeing Rabi Shenkopf’s wrinkled, spotted, darker than mine hands when he handed me my lollipop. He made it a point on his way home from Synagogue to always stop and we’d talk and laugh. It was a daily ritual between he and I, well a 5 day a week routine. Saturday and Sunday were the 2 days he did not stop to visit with me on Nana’s front “stoop” (her word for front porch) of that big old house on Massasoit St. in which we and Nana lived. He needed Saturdays off to be at Synagogue and I was pretty busy on Sundays. The lollipop waited til Mondays because Irish Catholic 6 year olds apparently needed to attend both Sunday School (catechism class to be precise) and Mass. Then, as all good Irish Catholic families did, we ate for hours! Voluminous amounts weighing the table leaves down of pretty white, fleshy, tasteless food. Actually, I’ve since come to learn that my taste buds are rooted in Italian soil so boiled potatoes, chicken with skin fully on, and an array of green, yellow, and orange water soaked vegetables were not to my liking.
But the time with Nana, mom & dad, my aunts & uncles, and especially my cousins was the best and so was the dessert. The grownups sipped Irish coffee loaded with whipped cream while we just grabbed spoons full of the “angel clouds” (our name for whipped cream) and scooped ice cream into bowls with pudding and pieces of soda bread laced with Irish whiskey. We’d sneak drops of the glorious amber liquid from the corner of the bread platter and were gloriously giddy whether from its alcoholic content or simply the thoughts of doing something so bold. Mildly tipsy either way, we laughed from our bellies until we were sent to the backyard where we ran in circles, shouting as loud as we could. We were a wild tribe, and free, and nothing was more important to us than those moments. We lifted our hands to the sky and flew, until Dad came to the back porch, raised his hands and the clapped 3 times. Those large, firm, yet thinking back very gentle hands sounded like thunder to us. We walked behind him into the house, into the kitchen where hands were busy putting food away for Nana to have for meals over the coming week.
Those hands gave really good around the back hugs, pinched my cheeks and lifted me up off the floor. Waving goodbye were all the hands of those in my family, those who knew me and whose hands I would know for my lifetime.
I miss those hands, their touch. I miss my own small, smooth, soft hands. Innocence in an
embrace, comfort in a touch, and joy in a clap. The hands of “My Time”.
Today I see my hands resting on the arm of my chair. There are no veins to trace, no rubbery skin reminding me of my Nana at my age now. My 76year old hands are rigid and swollen, the skin not pinchable or loose, but rather stretched taught and shiney. The hands of Scleroderma.
The hands of my time are coming to an end soon. Hopefully with a last embrace of those I now hold in my heart. My hands knit themselves together in a prayer of thanksgiving. I savor their comfort.
