Slender Hands

Slender hands crossed her lifeless body. Everybody had to reach out and touch them the way she had always touched the ones she loved. It was not easy putting her to rest. The hands just made it all the more difficult. They lay beautiful and delicate, narrow with sculpted fingernails, the way they had rested on the kitchen table during long chats. The funeral home had placed them in the formal position, the position they used for everyone else, not realizing how much the hands would impact the entire family.
The brother and sister remembered hands holding theirs as they went into town or to church. She was older than they and kind. The hands reminded them of so many things: the weekend dances where their dad played the fiddle, keeping an eye on them while he played a waltz, a polka, or a two step; the family get-togethers with kids playing softball, the men in the garage or the barn, the women in the kitchen; and the weekend trips where fishing or hunting pheasants kept everyone busy. Or, they thought of the closeness they felt at weddings and funerals. The difficult times during the war as brothers came and went, and all endured the hardships at home. The family became huge as nieces and nephews arrived, and reunions were moved outside to the lawn and garages. Now, with her passing, there were only two Rakstads left for the family reunions that had long since moved to the park. Or…
He remembered the hands holding his during their wedding at the big Lutheran church in Grand Forks. They were small, yet held his with such strength that he was surprised. She held onto him through three children, countless locations, hard times and good, for sixty-four years. Or, he thought of the handkerchiefs she always carried in her hands or tucked into a pocket. The hankies had gotten so thin and sear that some of them were wispy and as fine as angle wings, but still she carried and used them since they were so soft on an inflamed nose. Or...
The sons remembered the hands tossing cards out during an exciting whist game. She never gave anything away. It was cutthroat whist for her. She calmly sat until it was her turn, then she tossed the cards out with a flourish, making everyone else work all the harder with very little chance to win. Or, they thought about the way the hands pulled them back from the edge of the boat, pushing them down to the floor, not letting them sit on the seats while the boat was going. She seldom went out on the boat. Afraid of the water, she usually stayed on the shore making lunch of sandwiches, potato salad, and rhubarb cake. Or…
The daughter remembered the hands rolling out lefsa dough. It had to be paper thin. She often said it should be thin enough to read the newspaper under it. Newspaper hadn’t been used since her mother’s time, but the story was still told as the dough got thinner and thinner. The hands carefully slid the long lefsa stick under the dough and flipped it over perfectly. Or, she thought about the way the hands gently touched each newborn baby, tucking in blankets and smiling into tiny faces, softly saying “Nimin doodla” or something similar from the distant memories of Norwegian endearments. Or…
The grandchildren remembered so many things. She loved the grandchildren, remembered every birthday, graduation, and anniversary. She attended all their weddings, usually wearing the pale pink suit and fluffy blouse that made her eyes sparkle and her hair shine. Her hands tightly held onto his arm as they made their way down the aisle to the grandparents section close to the front. Or, they thought of earlier days. Each one had something special to remember: Hands giving out cookies or filling in crossword puzzles with their help. Hands clutching a beige purse with something inside, a book, a toy, or a birthday check. Hands hugging them with an extra pat on the back. And, hands reaching up to adjust the volume on her hearing aid when it squealed as they hugged her back. Or…
The great grandchildren didn’t remember much. They thought of hands, small and cold, crossed over a familiar person. They thought of phone calls and birthday cards. They worried about the coffin, the depth of the grave, the strangers touching her hands, too. They will never know the beautiful hands, animated, young, and warm, poking into everyone’s lives, caring more than most people realized. They will never see the hands arranging and organizing garage sales for the best display or pot lucks for the best arrangement of the food. They will only have stories and memories from others. Even the oldest will quietly ask about her at family reunions and wonder what she was like. Or...
Other family and friends remembered the hands serving coffee or cutting zucchini bars. The visits in the kitchen or on the deck flashed upon their minds. The cards for special occasions arrived regularly with a small note written carefully and neatly with those hands. Her questions and concern about even them made her a favorite, so the church was full of caring loved ones on this day. Or…
The hands didn’t move. They were quiet and cool, frozen into place by the hand of God. Everyone reached out to touch them then pulled back as each realized the hands were empty; she was not there. The loss was complete. The hands were dead. All were resigned to that fact as the lid of the coffin was closed. She had a new pair of hands, clear and smooth and warm. God touched her, took her home, and covered her slender hands with his own.