She held my hand with hers. In the other, she held a cane crafted by a husband who was long gone. We shuffled closer to her rocking chair. It was as old as she was. I had a vision of her sitting there many years ago. She rocked and comforted my grandfather as he cut his first tooth—holding his tiny hand in hers.
“Big Mum, we’re almost there,” I shouted into her ninety-five year old ears. Everyone called her “Big Mum.” I didn’t know why. At sixteen, I towered over her four foot, eight inch frame.
We reached the chair. I took her cane and hung it on the nail in the wall. She reached out, held both my hands, and allowed me to support her. She turned and settled into the chair. “Thank you, Michael!” She said weakly. “I’m not sure if that was the chair or these old bones that just creaked so loudly.”
I knelt in front of her. “It was the chair, Big Mum. There’s nothing wrong with those bones of yours.” I looked into her rheumy eyes, set in a face deeply lined by decades of age. “You’re as pretty as a peach!”
Don’t you lie to me, young man!” She scolded, but her smile betrayed her. “I’m not lying!” I lied.
I continued to hold her surprisingly strong hands. How many hands had they held? I saw her as a young woman, holding the hand of a suitor. She was a bride, who held the hand of a new husband. They walked down the aisle into a life together. This same hand held my grandfather’s when he came home with a skinned knee. Later they held my mother’s—a new granddaughter.
The hands she held, I also got to hold. I remembered my grandmum. She took my hand and lead me into her house. I’d pooped in my pants and was afraid my Mum would be mad at me. Grandmum took my clothes, washed them by hand, and sent me home clean.
My mother held my hand when I was sick. The warmth and comfort of her fingers was a mother’s love. In the spring, she’d hold my hand when we walked the dirt roads near our home in search of wildflowers. The trees closed around us. In her hands, I knew I was safe.
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