My Mother’s Hands

By Michael Anastasio

My mother had beautiful hands. “A pianist’s hands” is how she’d have described them on someone else. And though she had played the piano as a young woman, as an adult, her fingers were more likely to be working the keys of a typewriter. I would sit in rapt amazement watching her deftly strike the keys with such authority. Without ever looking at them. How did they know which key was which, those wise fingers of hers? The keys weren’t even in alphabetical order, so I decided that my mother’s hands weren’t only beautiful, they were magical.

They were elegant hands, with a modest diamond engagement-wedding ring circa 1945 on her left hand and on her right, a passed-down diamond ring she’d received for her high school graduation. She had highly-arched fingernails, each with a perfect “moon” and always meticulously manicured. The manicure was a Saturday night ritual. Seated at our dinette table in front of our big turquoise not-so-portable portable tv, mom would surround herself with her manicure paraphernalia, while watching one of the Saturday night black and white offerings and in turn would be fervently watched by me.

First there was the cotton ball removal of last week’s polish; the part I didn’t enjoy, as the strong chemical odor made me hold my nose, scrunching up my face and leaning way back. When that smelly business was over, I would pull myself up close to watch the filing and shaping, a sound — more of a feeling — that sent shivers through my body. She performed this spine tingling task with the sureness and dexterity of a concert violinist. After the soaking and cuticle push back, came the color application in varying shades of pink, red or sometimes clear, showing those perfect moons. This was my favorite part — a task at which mom was a real pro. Swift and sure, working from the pinky to the thumb, she colored each nail in three steady, perfectly applied strokes. Always three. One up each side of the nail and the last one right up the middle. With ten perfectly painted nails gleaming wet with the light from the milk-glass early American fixture above us, all that was left was the drying. She’d hold her hands up, fingers fluttering, while The Snows of Kilimanjaro (or some other “Saturday Night at the Movies” movie) played out or the June Taylor Dancers made black and white kaleidoscopic patterns on the floor of the Jackie Gleason stage. It was a Saturday night ritual in preparation for a Sunday morning ritual — mass.

Those were the days when families went to church in their “Sunday best.” For her own wardrobe choices, mom would often consult me, her “soon-to-be-gay” son. Hearing “Mikey, come in here,” I knew an opinion was needed. Turning this way and that, with her disapproving eyes focused on the mirror, she’d ask, “What do you think? Belt or no belt?” “Belt,” I’d answer resolutely. “Oh, I don’t know,” she’d sigh as she snapped the belt in place, “I look like a pillow tied in the middle.” Having already given my solicited opinion I could only add, “Well, what’s worse, to look like a pillow tied in the middle or to look like a pillow?” She’d shoot me “a look,” that’d bounce right off the mirror hitting its mark, but she’d wear it belted. With bag and shoes to match.

And gloves. My mother came from a generation of women who always wore gloves. Mom had an array of soft kid gloves for each season and occasion in grey, black, navy, tan, bone and white and in varying lengths. Her gloves fit so tightly that putting them on was something of a ritual. She’d smooth the supple kid, working it down her little finger toward the palm. She’d do this with each finger then finally, smoothing the glove over her hand and wrist and up her forearm. Seeing she’d been observed at this, Mom would dependably say, “There’s nothing worse than baggy gloves,” in a prim, high-pitched voice.

Arriving at church, Mom would reverse the glove ritual. She would pull at each finger so that, by the time she’d reach the doorway, her right glove would be off, ready to dip her hand into the holy water font and make the sign of the cross. Crossing ourselves, less elegantly, we would proceed as a family to our front row pew, my dad pulling up the rear. Kneeling, Mom would deposit her purse and right glove on the pew behind her. The rest of us would follow and kneel. That’s the way it was. When you found your seat in a Catholic church you couldn’t just sit down but were required to kneel and silently pray. I usually faked it. No one could tell if you were actually praying and I was too busy with all the treats the place had to offer. I did love all the embellishments — every pretty thing to capture the imagination of a young visual gay boy. With a background of lilting organ music, there were lavish flower arrangements, embroidered linens, crystal cruets, gold chalices and gold candelabras with tall gold-capped ivory candles being lit by altar boys in their long black cassocks and starched white surplices — Catholic drag I found so appealing. Someday I’d be old enough to wear a long black dress in church and get away with it. There were colorful statues including a pretty Blessed Virgin Mary and a handsome, blond-haired St. Stephen, my favorite. There was also a well-muscled, nearly-naked, decidedly hunky, unfortunately crucified Jesus that attracted much of my attention. His body was so lean and muscular and his alabaster skin so smooth and shiny you could almost overlook the blood, the nails through his hands and feet and the agony on his face.

Most memorable, though, were my mother’s hands. I’d shift my gaze to find those two elegant hands devoutly pressed together in prayer. One gloved. One bare. Long beautiful fingers of her perfectly manicured right hand with that single sparkling diamond, silhouetted against her other, kid-gloved hand. It was an indelible image of pure elegance, hand pressed against hand, a perfect pair, one gloved, one bare that would burnish itself onto my mind’s eye. Surely I thought, God must have also appreciated the beauty and grace of those hands, the effort that had gone into their perfect presentation. Most certainly the prayers her hands were so fervently offering would be heard, and their requests granted.

That’s how I will always remember my mother’s hands. The hands that fed me, bathed me, changed my diapers, administered my cough medicine, parted and combed my hair, happily signed my birthday cards and not so happily, my report cards. The hands that made our dinners, laundered and pressed our clothes, cleaned our house and provided so much motherly care. The hands that would someday pen a letter accepting my lifestyle, one she couldn’t understand but would try so hard to support. Lovely, elegant, hands that grew the finest roses and would create those abundant flower arrangements on the altar. Praying hands, full of grace, that made their way through a thousand rosaries and that I am quite certain, will welcome me when I cross over from this life to the next, the same hands I watched in church, elegantly pressed together in prayer, one gloved, one bare.