I saw my mother’s hand today. It was sticking out of my sweater, wiping homemade cookie crumbs from my daughter’s chair in my dining room. It made me incredibly homesick.
I saw the design of black and white and gray that covered the kitchen floor of my childhood, and felt the hard wooden chair beneath me that I always sat in at the kitchen table. It made me want to grab a book and climb up in the Happy Chair, our La-Z-Boy rocker that was the place to go when Mom had a few minutes to read to me. Mom is hundreds of miles away, in our hometown.
But. . . the Happy Chair was re-covered (a mere 20 years ago) and now sits by my window, waiting for a book and a child and a grown up to fill it. Soon I will travel home for Christmas, bringing giggling children to my parent’s home, to fill our days and hands with joy. Today, I will use these hands to give “one more cookie AGAIN please” to a sweet three year old. We will no doubt grab a book when the lunch dishes are done, and read in our Happy Chair.
I cannot wait to hold my mother’s hands in mine again, and thank her for all those lazy days of my childhood; days that I am realizing were only lazy for me.
Three year old hands have cleared her dishes from the table and found a music box. They are holding ribbons as a beautiful dance unfolds in the living room.
Childhood is such a gift, not only to the child. I think that flutter in my chest is my muse and my childhood memories, holding hands and dancing with my daughter.