birthday

Today is my mother’s birthday. She would have celebrated number eight-five, though it is hard now for me to imagine her that old. All my siblings and their families, Eddie, our children and I would have most likely descended upon our folks’ house to celebrate with a velvet red cake and a few bottles of chardonnay.

I have missed her sorely, especially these past few weeks since I have been sick. Back in the day, she would have shown up at our doorstep, bright and cheerful and ready to do the work of taking care of my house, my kids and me. I could have rested my head on her shoulder.

Anita was a beautiful woman; I know that I did not/ do not possess the grace, elegance and style she did, and I think I was pretty young when I figured that out.

After she died in 2005, I wrote a piece about being with her the last few days of her life. This is an excerpt from that essay; it is about my mother’s hands, a subject matter that never fails to intrigue me, regardless of whose hands they are. My mom’s were pretty special, though:

“I need to mention my mother’s hands. They were long and slender and ridiculously graceful. They always seemed poised to begin conducting the musical piece she was hearing in her head. When she hummed or sang aloud, her hands danced elegantly in front of her. She played the piano and the cello when she was younger. The sight of those hands gliding back and forth across the bridge of the cello, her baby finger held delicately in the air, always made me feel slightly ashamed. My hands were thick and small, good for scaling trees and catching baseballs. There was always dirt beneath my fingernails. My mother’s hands were like porcelain – as white and smooth and tapered as you could possibly imagine.”

Happy B-day.