I bought the dish towels in France. Gave them to my mother. My hands to her hands. Each trip I would cook for her. Use the towels to clean up. She would wash them. Use them. Hand to hand until we returned again. Never out of touch.

I didn’t imagine I would see them again. Until I opened the UPS box from my sister-in-law. It was that pause that your brain makes, perhaps letting your heart catch up, when I saw them. Familiar, but new. She made the towels into pot holders. She joined her hands to the chain of touch, sewing each seam beautifully. They will be in my kitchen now. Touched by my French family, as I cook for them.

Things change. Evolve. Time changes everything. Even our relationships. Even the familiar becomes new. But the seams will hold. If we allow them. If we change along with them, and keep reaching out. Hand to hand.

I have often wondered, still at times, without my mother do I still belong to this family? Do I still belong to this home town? I run my hand along the seams and hear a whispered yes.