II…Holding Hands
I don’t know where to start because there never really was a clear beginning. You see, I didn’t know her personally. I wasn’t given the chance to. The others however, I knew deeply and profoundly in varying degrees for various timelines. Each connection was unique in its own way with an explicit start and an even more distinctive end. But it began with her, this much I know. So the questions became, how do I contextualize a life held through memories and dreams? How do I link tones of loss and grief through separate lifetimes?
I stared out the window, recalling night visions from long past; dreams that had managed to seep into my conscious awakened state. They had each visited my dreamscapes, from time to time. Some stayed throughout the entirety of the night until the sun arose, willing my eyes to open. Others showed up for brief moments to share some advice or to simply keep watch. They provided hope, warnings, and more often than not, more questions. Every time, I asked,
“Why did you leave so early?”
Most times, my query went unanswered; Was left up for interpretation; It’s just how it is, things happen for a reason type of resolution. But there was the one time that she responded…
“For you, darlin’...we left so that you could continue.”
It began with her and this is the beginning of her story, of my grandmother, Claudia. I imagine her to be the type of person that would take your hand with both of hers upon meeting. She would use the expression, “how do you do”? with sincerity in her voice. She had a kind smile and enjoyed reading from Dream World Magazine, Love and Romance. She was a mother of five, a dutiful wife and a devout baptist. She passed 29 years prior to me entering this world. I wish I could have met her but for now, she remains a stranger I look upon in photographs. Memories captured on film, now reduced to faded tones that tend to draw me in and push me away at the same time.
She lives, however, through her kin. My mother being the remaining last one. It seems a strange observation, but they have the same hands. I take in the shape of my mothers as she drinks her tea in the morning. The knuckle is slightly larger, especially on the ring finger. The creases run deep onto the underside of the palm. Her fingers stay slightly curled after releasing their grip from the mug, arthritis taking its ugly hold. Her hands, a fortune tellers map, can read the past rather than the future. They reveal scars of hardships carried without complaint. Rivets of joy melted like iron to glass creating intricate valleys of designs. You can sense that love rests deeply in her bones. With age, they are fragile and stiff with aches. Yet, she feels unbreakable at times, a beacon of strength during challenges. Since that day at the funeral home, age four, my mother began carrying the weight of the world. Even if her small sensibility couldn’t understand what was occurring, her body knew. Her body listened and took note. My grandmothers body did not listen. It predicted a war and fled when the first bullet was shot. From there, she bled.
