Marking the day with restored memories of mother's hands

In anticipation of Mother's Day, I realized that I could not remember what I had vowed never to forget. I had told my children stories of their grandmother, Harriet Vallas Apostolou, but I had forgotten the most important part. I had forgotten her hands.

They were not elegant. She did not have long tapered fingers. Her nails were not manicured or painted. No, there was none of that, but it was her hands that had been the essence of her.

So often, they were covered in dirt, for she loved to garden. No garden gloves for her. She liked to break the earth in her hands, to feel the ground, and she loved flowers. It was mostly azaleas and daffodils, but any flowers would do.

So many afternoons when we came home from school, she would be in the flower beds, planting or moving a new row of flowers to add just the right color to her gardens.

Her hands were also covered in flour, for she loved to bake. Not cook, no, she did not enjoy cooking, but she loved to bake. There were no store bought crusts for her, only homemade, with lots of flour and butter. So her hands were covered in flour. She loved to bake cakes and cookies, and try new things, but her favorites were pies. There were so many hours in the kitchen at the table rolling out the dough. My father loved her apple pies with crisp flaky crusts and warm gooey sweet middles, but for me, it was always lemon meringue pie with the brittle crusts and tangy flavor. Our kitchen was always filled the smell of her desserts.

And, her hands were covered in paint. Sometimes it was oils and acrylics, for she was an artist, but more often than not, it was house paint, because she had decided to change the color of her bedroom, or my bedroom, or the kitchen, again. She was always looking for the right bright color to match her mood. She was never satisfied with some drab old color that had started to fade. No, for her, it was bright light spirited colors. Sometimes she would mix her own paint just to come up with the right color to express herself. I perhaps admired this quality the most in her because it was so different from me. She was daring and bold. I would never be those.

It was the caress of her hands that I loved the most, however. I would climb next to her as she talked on the phone, just so she would stroke my head and caress my cheek. I loved this more than anything. Later, I would climb into the hospital bed with her as she would take my head in her hands and tell me not to worry. She would tell me it was nothing serious, and she would be home with us again soon. I wanted to believe that. I needed to believe that.

And in the end, it was her hand I clutched as I begged her not to leave us. With one last squeeze of her hand, she was gone. She could fight no more. In complete disbelief, it was her hands that I stared at as she lay in the coffin. My heart was broken. Her hands were folded so neatly across her body. They were so still. In my young teen-age mind, I swore to myself I would not forget them. I would not forget her loving touch. I could not.

Yet, as the more than 25 years have passed, I had forgotten. Then, by chance, I saw her wedding rings the other night. It does not matter where or why I saw them, but there they were. She had worn them every day. She had worn them in the garden while she was planting. She had worn them in the kitchen while she was baking. She had worn them while she was painting, every room, every color. She had even worn them to the hospital that last time. She had only given them to my father when she knew that she would wear them no more.

When I saw them, the memories came flooding back. My eyes filled with tears. I tried to breathe. I had forgotten. I will not forget again. I will tell your granddaughters of their amazing grandmother and her wonderful, loving hands. I will tell them.

Happy Mother's Day. I still miss you.

Constance A. Anastopoulo practices law in Charleston.