A Languishing Hand
by
Angie Lucania
I spent New Years with my father and his
girlfriend at their home in
Over
time my fascination with hands branched out to hands of all ages: from the
delicate fingers of my friends, to the thick bear-like hands of my step-dad who
enjoyed beading jewelry despite its contradiction to his day job in
construction, the mangled arthritic hands that plague the maternal side of my
family, or the stern grip of a handshake exchanged between a father and his
daughter’s new beau. Something about the power these hands possess has always
intrigued me.
We
can do so much good and yet so much harm with our hands. We use our hands to
console our loved ones, to dry away tears, to show affection, to walk our
children across the street and greet our neighbors; yet we also use them to
abuse children, stab backs, slit wrists, or inject harmful drugs into or veins.
This one part of the body can reveal so much about a person and I am
mesmerized, convinced there is more than what meets the eye and I am determined
to figure it out.
My fascination with hands began with my
father’s mother, Carmela Lucania. At five years old, the one thing I remember
most about my grandmother was her wrinkled hands. I would gaze at her hands and
arms for hours, fascinated by how different they looked from everybody
else’s—especially my own. My eyes would follow as she pressed the crumpled up
tissue to her sniffling nose, then to the firm but shaky grip of her vodka-
spiked glass of juice, down to her fingers pressed firmly against her furrowed
brow.
At family gatherings I would rarely
leave her side. There came a point where I would only sit with my grandmother
and play with her hands and arms— pushing on her veins protruding atop her
bones like the roots of a giant Oak while pinching up her paper thin skin. She
shrugged at the sight of her age spots and bruises, disgruntled with the toll
age had taken, as I smiled in awe of what I had discovered. Up until her death
when I was fifteen, I continued to play with her aging skin until amusement
turned into concern for her health as she started withering away.
As I got older we became very close and
began talking more about life, both the one I was beginning to experience and
the past experiences she once had. There was nothing we didn’t talk about.
Sometimes we didn’t have to talk at all because she could read my thoughts like
no other. We also shared the same views on death, which came up quite often
after her husband died right before I was born. I knew she didn’t want to be
here much longer after his passing and I respected that.
Sometimes Grandma would point up her
fist to the sky in mock bitterness, accosting her husband and father for
leaving her down here by herself. She claimed all her loved ones were up there
having a big party while she was stuck down here. The frank conversations about
death that my grandmother and I shared were never understood by the rest of the
family, especially when we would talk about metaphysical things like what the
“other side” is like and who will greet you once you “cross over”. Grandma and
I loved believing in those things even if everybody else was skeptical.
Well, it eventually came to the point
when diaper changing was necessary and that’s when I knew Grandma was ready to
go. She once said that she would never want to continue living if diaper
changing was a daily occurrence. I have always believed that when loved ones
are on their deathbed, in the end it is their decision whether they will cross
over that day or stick it out a little longer. And in Grandma’s case, the
diapers were the last straw. So I played with her hands extra long that last
day I was with her, the skin on her hands was looser than usual due to all her
weight loss. I really didn’t want to lose her or the hands that kept me warm
for so long –but I knew it was time.
It was an uncharacteristically cold and
cloudy day that June afternoon when I arrived at Grandma’s funeral. I walked up
to her casket only to find a disturbingly bright shade of Barbie Pink lipstick
smudged on her lips. “Grandma would not have approved of this”, I mumbled. I
was horrified by the sight of her skin stretched so unnaturally, I mean who
would give a post-mortem face lift like that?! I was scared to see what they
did to her beautiful hands—but sure enough they got the skin tightening
treatment too. For the first time ever I was put off by my grandmother’s hands.
I was scared to touch them. I knew I would feel nothing but cold, wrinkle-less
skin, lacking veins and elasticity. But I did it; with one single finger I
traced over her folded hands for the last time and found the connection was
gone.
* * *
I
walked into my father’s loft on that fine New Year’s Day to find Ken sitting on
the lounge chair, his hands clasped in a content position on his lap, a grin as
usual on his face and a posture that never ceases to amaze me. An Englishman,
his voice is deep and fluid—hypnotizing to the senses. He’s 84 years old, the
same age as my grandma was when I first noticed her hands.
As I sat there at the kitchen table,
staring at his hands, I wondered to myself whether I would experience that same
connection I had with my grandmother all just by the feeling of his hand in
mine. I wanted to recreate that connection I used to have with her, but in the
back of my mind I knew it wouldn’t be the same.
Despite my doubts, I got up the nerve
and started inspecting his hands like I would when I was five years old. I
sometimes forget that I’m not that young anymore and it’s probably more weird
than cute of me to play with some older man’s hands, but I just couldn’t help
myself! His reaction though similar to my grandmother’s, was more of a bashful
giggle than a shrug—as if he laughed at how age has taken its course but hasn’t
crippled his spirit. Unlike Grandma; Ken moved his hands away abruptly to rub
his tired eyes and, feeling a bit foolish, I smile nervously. I guess that
special connection I was searching for was reserved only for her. For us. For
what we had together