Hands

(A "fragmented essay" written for my class.) #college

Every single human being alive on the entire planet is going to die, including you. I’m not questioning why I die, but who is going to be there when I die. And who is going to be holding my hand. And maybe it will be a lover and maybe it won’t. Maybe it will be you and maybe it won’t. What scares me the most is having to hold the nurse’s hand because nobody else is there.

I was seven and the first day second grade was easier than that of first grade. The blue ribbons in my ponytails matched my blue dress. Mom walked me to the playground to take my picture and my red backpack held crayons and I stood against the swings and smiled because I promised I wouldn’t cry like I did last year. When the bell rang, I held her hand for as long as I could until the rest of the kids behind me pushed me through the doors. It was like in the movies. When the two lovers at the airport are trying to stay together but the line of people trying to board the plane are pushing them apart. Or like couples on the Titanic. The woman gets in the lifeboat while the husband stays heroically behind. They hold hands for as long as they can, but the boat is being lowered into the black ocean and too soon, neither of them can reach. That close-up shot of their hands slowly letting go.

Sometimes I think I’d like to know when I’m going to die. Maybe we could all have those sand hour glasses by our bedside. Or something like tick bombs with sounds only we could hear that sped up as we get closer to death. Or maybe the doctors could run tests on infants when they’re born and tattoo a date on their arm so they’ll always know.

My little brother is fourteen years old and he isn’t embarrassed to hold my mother’s hand. He lets her rub his fingers and tickle his back when doing homework and still hugs her in front of his friends. He still shouts, “I love you!” when getting out of the car at school but my favorite is when he lets her hold his hand when we watch a movie together. Teenagers always grow up too fast but him, he still holds his mother’s hand. A teenage boy still needs his mother’s hand.

I heard an idea once. You know, “Money is time. Time is money”? What if the time we had left to live was currency. You could buy a car in exchange for a day of your life. Five minutes could get you a burger and five years could pay your college tuition. Minimum wage would be around ten minutes. The rich would live longer and the poor would die quickly. I wouldn’t be buying so many white sweaters. I think charities would be hurting for donations because people don’t just give their life for anyone anymore.

I was twelve and he was twelve and we sat so close to each other at the movies that if either of us moved we would brush shoulders. Both our hands faced palm up, side by side, while I waited for him to take the lead and fill the slots between my fingers with his. The movie wasn’t romantic – something with guns and car chases. When he finally took my hand, neither of us said anything, though he could probably hear my uneven breaths while my heart rose up into my throat. When our hands got sweaty, we let go and wiped our palms on our jeans and went back into position. We barely spoke a word to each other all night, but I was still “in like” with him for the entire school year.

I wonder who is going to be holding my hand when I go.

Maybe I’m the only one, but as a little girl, holding hands with your mother and holding hands with your father are two completely different things. With mom, it’s because you’re in a hurry and keeping up with crowds can get you lost. You’re at the County Fair or getting groceries and “Honey, we’re heading this way”, “Don’t get lost. No, down this aisle. We need milk”. But with Dad it’s because you’re waiting in line for a cookie, or taking a walk around the neighborhood at night. It’s “You’re my little girl”, and “My goodness you’re beautiful”. Sometimes it’s just the grace of silence that fills your hands with each of Dad’s fingers. That’s why dads are made – to hold their daughter’s hand.

I was seventeen and you were holding my hand at your family’s classy Christmas party. We laughed because the lobster didn’t cost us a thing and the waiters helped us with our napkins as if we couldn’t do it ourselves. Your basement flooded that night and you splashed at my curled hair. It went flat and you took me for snow cones and a movie. I sang in the car. You swerved the steering wheel like a drunk and the snow cones fell over. Our hands were sticky in the theatre.

My grandmother’s hands are soft and wrinkly. Her skin feels so thin. Her knuckles protrude like mountains and her purple veins like the Nile River. Her fingers tug softly when braiding my hair and as I hold them, it feels as though I’m responsible for keeping them together. I know she won’t be there to hold my hand in my final moments, but I’ll be there to hold hers. And in those moments I will hold her hands and keep them together. I swear I will keep the river running smoothly as I can and rub the mountains down to mere hills and valleys and if I can hold her hand like that, I’ll be content with the life my hands have lived.

It’s my first year living away from home. I’m a “college student” and everything is the way they said it would be. Classes are hard, laundry is expensive, and dating college boys is different than dating high school boys because he’s holding my hand and we’re talking about things like Hemmingway and string theory instead of football and action movies. I like watching his hands reach for doors before I do. Opening them so I can walk through. Or how he puts his hand on the back of my chair when we’re sitting next to each other with my parents. He shakes my Father’s hand, and then puts his fingers through mine. His hands do so many things. I’m not saying his hands are the hands I’ll be holding when I’m wearing white, but I’m beginning to understand what those should feel like.

At the hospital, in your final moments, you could buy a room with a view by handing over a half-hour of your life (under-the-table) to the nurse.

When the light fades, I hope the right hands will be in mine. The right hands are going to feel like water, and silk, and hunger, and that is not a euphemism. It is going to feel like everything. So in those final moments, let the light pour on my face. I promise not to be timid to the fires of hell burning at my back or the cool air of heaven brushing my cheek – whichever comes first – for with our fingers intertwined, I will go tranquilly and my heart’s last thump will catch on the ambience of the right hands in mine.