When I was little, small enough to carry, my grandma (as she told it) would put me in a chair, and I would stay there. Watching her do the kitchen work. If she had to change rooms, she would put me in another chair. And I stayed. Watching. Watching her make the beds. Sweep the floor. Watching her watch Days of our Lives (or, her “story” as she called it). Even when she called her friends on the telephone’s party line after the show, she still reached out a hand to me. Oh, it would wave in the air, as I watched her go on and on about the Horton’s, Ma Horton and Pa Horton as she called them, but every few minutes, she would reach her hand down in my direction, wiggle her fingers, saying everything was fine, don’t worry.
She thought I was so good. I’m not sure that’s what I was thinking. If I know myself at all, I was both fascinated by her, and constantly making sure that she didn’t leave. And she never did.
I don’t know the characters, the plot line, or even if it still airs, but I can hear the opening, “Like sands through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives.” And I can feel her, right beside me.
My mother has the same hands of my grandma. Maybe not exact in size in shape, but the same in the reaching out, the always there. No abandonings.
They say nothing lasts forever. I’m not so sure about that. I’m still carrying the stories with me. The love. And perhaps I write them, each day, with the hands that someone is waiting for, counting on, to never leave.