I remember, as a very young pianist, admiring the hands of my instructors. They were bony and muscular. They moved quickly over the keys of the piano as they elicited a response from my own hands in playing the great music that I was to begin practicing. My own hands were soft and unripened from much playing.

My mother’s own hands are still bony but now arthritic. From lack of activity to  more than enough movement, her hands – that which I clenched in fear and love – still long to touch my own, and mine, hers. It is in that touch where our love meets and is gentled to a hush of the innocent love that a child has for their mother and vice versa.

Every night growing up, until I could play myself to sleep, my mother would play the middle movement  from Sonata Pathetique. The slow soothing music, helps me to remember times of innocence – a time, where hands were not placed on me in an intrusive manner.

I long for the innocence of those days. The simple touch of my mother’s hands on my own. There is nothing like the touch of innocence from…Hands.


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