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Writer's pictureMichelle Mejia

My Mother's Hands

On the windowsill above the kitchen sink in my parents’ house, there lies a portal into another time. Did you know such portals still exist? A treasure in a jar, not of clay, but of plastic. This jar is full of the sweet scent of tenderness. And when you twist off the reddish pink lid, inside is the smell of my mother’s hands.


My mother’s hands made the dinner meal every night of my childhood. Food that was chopped and boiled, shredded and baked and carefully, colorfully arranged on our plates. Then those hands held three other pairs while she spoke a word of grace, for the grace she shared. 


After dinner came another kind of liturgy. The nightly baptism at the kitchen sink. My mother would take off her wedding rings and place them in a shot glass on the sill. Then with those same hands she would lovingly wash each dish. When everything was clean, she would dry her hands on a kitchen towel and twist open that treasure in the plastic jar. She would dab one finger inside to scoop out the treasure, and with care, she would slowly and religiously cover every inch of her hands with the cream inside. Soothing those tired, dry, and work worn hands.


Later that evening, these were the same hands that held the books she read to me. These were the same hands that tucked me into bed each night. The same hands that cooked and soothed, held and loved. They were soft and gentle, and as she smoothed my hair and leaned over to give me a hug and kiss goodnight, what I remember most about these moments is the smell of her hands.


It was the smell of being safe.

It was the smell of home.

It was the smell of being held in the tenderest love of all.


The simple smell of my mother’s hands each night, from that treasure in the plastic jar with the reddish pink lid.


I bear witness that for all of my life my mother has done this same nightly ritual. With slight variations. At some point the dish washing become loading a dishwasher and only washing the pots and pans by hand. In some houses the kitchen sink had a windowsill to the outside, but now, the sill opens to the living room. Always, always that treasure in a jar stayed nearby.


Recently, I bought myself that treasure in a jar – but not to use. My skin is allergic to too many things and it's not on my safe list. Instead, when I twist the lid open I close my eyes, lift it to my nose, inhale deeply, and it’s like breathing in the smell of every goodnight of my childhood, and every caress of my mother’s hands is right here with me once more.

The scent of gentle tenderness. The scent of my mother’s hands.


Later, as I go into my daughter’s room, to read her a book, to smooth her hair, to lean in to give her a hug and a kiss goodnight, I wonder. What will she remember? Will she find a portal into another time one day? Will she want one? What will the treasure in a jar be for her?

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