~C.S. Lewis
This is a braided essay I wrote last fall for creative writing. It's a little rough but I spent so much time trying to make it what my teacher wanted that I got sick of changing it :)
Hands
When my father held my hand his rough skin would rub over mine. I hated the feel of skin rubbing together again and again, yet I never stopped him. His dark and tanned skin was usually splattered with drywall mud. My little brother and I would flake it off when he got home from work. Every day when Mom would start dinner I knew dad would be home soon. And every day it was a big deal. Like when he left in the mornings and we would stand behind the glass front door and watch him pull out and drive away. We blew kisses and sent him hugs. Wrapping our arms around ourselves we twisted back and forth. Standing at the frosted front window I never knew what he was off to do. He went to work; though that didn’t mean a lot to me then. I knew he came home covered in drywall mud but I didn’t know what happened in between.
Mom’s hands are softer than dad’s, smaller than mine. Yet they have so much to say. They haven’t worked with the heavy tools or done rough work like my father. They are worn from years of being soaked in water, doing dishes, mopping floors, and washing windows. They have experienced so much more than I could ever know. Still, their work is never done. For me, it was always more visible than my father’s, for years I just never knew to call it work. Somehow Dad leaving and the farewell we gave him everyday made his job so different from Mom’s.
Mom started working when I was three. The small room in our basement became a classroom and I was one of just six students. We danced and sang, painted and read. I learned my letters, my colors, how to draw and color and play with friends. I would lie awake at night listening to her stop and start music over and over for the next school day. She coordinated with Dad to make sure I was busy when they got ready for preschool parties and special activities. I never knew what we were going to do each day in class. Every night I would climb on Dad’s lap and pull my papers out of my bag to show him my work. He wasn’t there when I did it in class; even if he was the one who copied the worksheets. I never really saw Mom teaching as a job. It all seemed so natural to me. We didn’t send her off to work like Dad. She never left us.
When I was little I wanted to be a ballerina when I "grew up." I was unaware that every other little girl wanted the same thing. Back then dancing was something I looked forward to. Not knowing how much work it would be or that it had the label ‘job’ made it exciting. I would dance around my house, unashamed that I didn’t have the moves down right. I was never worried what anyone would think about my dancing. It wasn’t until I was eleven that self-consciousness set in: my mother found me dancing and snapped a picture. For some reason I was distraught to think that she had captured my practicing forever. She told my dance teacher how I danced everywhere I went. I guess it wasn’t bad because she said that was what good dancers did.
My niece and nephew pretend. Lilly is four years old and plays doctor. She pretends she is sick or makes her brother lay down so she can take care of him. She is very matter of fact about it. Someone is sick, this is what you do, and they will get better. Mahone is three now and last I knew, wanted to be an astronaut. He gets so excited when he sees the moon his eyes get big and he talks on and on about it. Casually he tells me he will go to the moon again someday with his daddy. He thinks he has already been because he walked on ‘the moon’ at the museum. It fascinates him and he does not consider it a job or think about making money or what it will require for him to make it there. Nothing is out of reach for children. They don’t know what the costs are; what failure is.
My dad pulls in later now. Sometimes we eat without him. He does not receive a warm welcome of running and hugging nor does he always come inside right away. At times I watch him climb out of his truck, limping slightly, carrying heavy tools to the shed before pulling out the lawn mower. Pushing the mower in straight rows over the stringy grass, hauling preschool toys out of the way and shoveling up apples under the tree, he never complains. He works until he collapses, usually in his leather office chair. He doesn’t always get much done around the house but he is always doing something.
I had a job over the summer one year. I did not go looking for one but took it when it came. It was different everyday; different place, different customers, different managers, supervisors, and co-workers. I worked for a carnival company. We met at the warehouse in the kind of neighborhood you wouldn’t expect to see life in. We loaded trucks and trailers with games, toys, and inflatables, and piled in fifteen-seater vans that pulled our rock walls. From set up to take down it was almost always fun. The long days in the heat were made bearable because those were the days we had huge breaks when no customers came. We rode the rides, played with the prizes, and joked around. I didn’t make much money but that I made any having so much fun was a reward in itself.
I used to look at my little brothers hand in mine and marvel at how small it was. He is two years younger than I am, but I felt so much older back then. I remember the day that I realized his hands were big, that he wouldn’t always be my baby brother. It was a sad day. Now I look at the small and soft hands of my nieces and nephew and wonder at all the things those hands will do in the years to come. More than likely they will do things they never expected to do. More than likely they will not do all the things they wanted to. This is not to say that they won’t be great, they just won’t be great the way they expected.
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