Easter was a tough day for Bette. She knew it would be the last holiday with her family, all those big and little grandchildren, nieces and nephews, children, sister, brothers, in-laws and out-laws. (As we lovingly refer to some of the in-laws.)
But she rallied, despite her exhaustion, despite feeling melancholy, despite the swelling in her legs.
She wore a beautiful new robin’s egg blue vest, the same color of her eyes, got the eyeliner on remarkably even, and wore a perfect rose colored lipstick. Though thin she looked like a healthy person.
The afternoon visiting at her brother’s was tough. She was so tired. Worse was that she felt like people were fawning over her and paying their last respects.
I sat down on the couch next to her and asked, “You doing OK?”
“I feel like I should be wearing a sign that says ‘Last Chance,’” she said.
I took her hand and held it.
“Thank you, that’s what I need,” she said.
When we protect and reassure our babies we hold their hands. When we are in love we hold our lovers’ hands, silently signaling our commitment, our devotion, our caring. But somehow we fall out of the habit of holding hands. We forget the magic of such a simple gesture.
I hope I can hold Bette’s hand for a few more months.
