her hands

I keep saying to myself, "when things settle down, I'm going to focus more on writing." I'm going to make it a priority again. Trouble is, if I keep waiting for the quiet rhythm to start back up again, I fear, I may be waiting still for a long time...

It's Wednesday night. It doesn't feel like Wednesday. I don't know what day it feels like. I don't remember what day it was I found out Mama Sonia died. I think it was Friday. We flew down to Florida on Monday. Funeral was Tuesday morning at the cemetery by the golf course. Under a canopy of Spanish moss.

Wake was Monday night. The casket was open—we weren't expecting that. But once I got over the initial surprise, it was actually okay. She looked okay.

It's funny, when Papa Roger passed away last year, what I remembered most about his physical self laying there in the casket were his hands. I remembered the way he would rub his thumbs together in peaceful contemplation. With Mama Sonia, it's the same: her hands. They were always so soft, so well manicured. I can still picture her writing so carefully in her black book or addressing an envelope or filling out a shopping list. She had the most perfect and thoughtful penmanship. Her hands created that. And so much more.

They looked good, laying there, placed just so one crossed over the other.

I'm tired of thinking about it now. But I do want to think about her more. I will. I am.