MOTHER’S HANDS by David Singyke
My mother had the long and slender hands of a concert pianist. She typed and wrote shorthand with them in an insane asylum after my father left us.
She knitted, crocheted, embroidered and sewed with them. Washed dishes, cooked meals, planted plants, signed her name, wrote letters, drove a car for the first time at age 24, fished for salmon, wiped my tears, dialed a phone, spanked me as a teenager while I laughed, felt my forehead and took my temperature, wrapped my Christmas and birthday gifts, changed my shitty diapers and wiped me clean, held her right one up in a courtroom in Springfield, Massachusetts, the day she became a US citizen. She drank tea, smoked cigarettes, read hundreds of books, painted watercolors.
These ones I don’t know for sure: Gave a boy in Glasgow a handjob. Caressed my father. Held his hand. Slapped him for cheating. Masturbated. Hit one of her sisters. Felt the scar where her left breast once was. Bounced a tennis ball.
These I know for sure: Wrote Christmas cards. Left me and my brother funny notes. Clapped at performances. Held a man after my father was gone that wasn’t me or my brother. Waved so long to my brother that last night he backed out of the driveway. Opened the door for the state trooper that same night. Smoothed my hair. Wrote recipes so my brother and I could fix dinner while she was at work at the crazy place. Wiped tears of laughter from her eyes while reading Peter DeVries novels.
(Once she used them to roll a joint using papers from a home perm kit and the contents of a bag of parsley my brother and I had long prior robbed the pot from.)
These I made up: Cured cancer. Healed my brother’s broken body after the car accident. Pointed me in the direction to my true love. Cooked for the homeless. Signed a peace treaty. Discovered the lost continent of Atlantis. Won millions playing poker. Gave the Indians their land back. Solved Fermat’s Last Theorem. Wrought a platinum suit of armor for my father’s tattered soul. Made yin and yang one. Created the atom. Held chocolate-covered ants between her thumb and forefinger. Found extra money in an old coat to buy me hockey skates instead of figure skates in 7th grade. Drummed them on the table while awaiting her next question during her orals for her PhD in education. Hugged me just now.
These are the last ones I remember: Punching her pillow while screaming, red-faced “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” at God after my brother died. Preparing macrobiotic meals in the hope that it would cure her cancer. Locking them behind my neck as I carried her upstairs to her room because she was too frail to climb them herself. Writing her last letter to her mother and sisters. Squeezing my hand back slightly a few hours before she died that sunny May day. Shoving a paring knife – one I still use today – into the running garbage disposal in frustration. Inscribing the unabridged dictionary she gave me as a graduation present, the last gift she ever gave me.
Not true: The last seven words of the previous sentence.
“Mother’s Hands” is David Singyke’s first publication in a national literary magazine.