Edna Mae's Hands

Edna Mae Booth passed from this world in Friday’s early morning hours.  Her body wrestled long with death even though her spirit had been long ready.

What I will remember most when I picture Edna Mae are her hands.  Fine-boned with long, tapered fingers, hers were the hands of a concert pianist.  But Edna Mae never played the piano.  So thin was she at the last that the blueness of the veins on the backs of her hands stood attention against her skin, a roadmap of life.

When her kids, now grandparents themselves, remember their mom, they see her standing in the kitchen cooking, washing dishes, hauling water, washing clothes in the wringer washer, tending kids, chasing kids, spanking unruly kids, her hands never idle.  When it came her turn to be tended instead of to tend, her hands held bits of the jigsaw puzzles or a pen to work her puzzle books or her devotional books to read, hands still busy almost to her last day.

With poor circulation, she wore soft black gloves to keep her hands warm, but would take them off when I held her hands as we prayed together and at the amen, I would kiss her hands.

Others, closer by blood and time and shared life will miss other things, but I will miss Edna Mae’s hands – beautiful and soft and filled with the music of a life.

What Will I Miss When I Die?

A question posed as a writing exercise: what will you miss when you die? is one I consider literally at first.  What will I miss?  I suspect from my faith perspective, the literal answer is nothing, since I believe that with death, there is perfect union with God.  In such a state of completeness, there is no absence, hence nothing to miss.

But, if the ‘me’ of now is the ‘me’ of then, if the ‘me’ of then feels the separation from this life, the me-of-then will miss . . .

The people I love . . .
     and the chance to make things better between us . . .

All of my grandson Rowen’s firsts yet to come . . .

Sunsets . . . snow falling . . . the quiet of a winter’s day . . . rain storms . . .

I will miss weather . . .

Smells . . . of clover and cinnamon rolls baking . . .

Girls in Easter dresses . . . children laughing . . . and the night sky . . .

Smoking cigarettes in the dark talking with a friend . . .

The missed chances and missed choices . . .

Laughing . . . and crying . . .

Sentimental movies . . . and popcorn – with lots of butter and salt . . .

Snuggling under a warm blanket on a cold night . . .

Seeing a new place for the first time . . .

The faces of the old . . .

Hands to hold and be held by . . .

Sitting by a bonfire on a summer’s night . . . walking the Scottish highlands . . . sled riding . . . having another dog . . .

Eating food . . . Indian food spicy enough to make me cry with the heat of it . . .

Tasting strawberries on my tongue . . . sun-warmed tomatoes with salt . . . corn fresh from the garden . . .

Waking up to sunshine . . .

Seeing a rainbow . . .

Who my children will become . . .