My Mother's Gloves, My Father's Watch

 

A few days ago I went walking/running at the Vineyard park for the first time in almost a year.   When we started construction early last spring I knew I needed to save my energy for the labor demands around the house and no kidding, I couldn't have done both.  It was warm enough to walk outdoors so I donned my coat and a pair of gloves that had belonged to my mother.  As I walked I thought to myself that this was the first time in about three and a half years I felt I was approaching normalcy in my life.  Before my mother's death over three years ago, I and my siblings had spent a tumultuous fall caring for my father who had developing health issues along with dementia.   After her death we brought my father to Utah to share his care between my sister and myself.  He passed away 14 months later.    Then there was a series of health issues and our remodel.   As I walked I realized that perhaps I just might regain my "normal" routine (whatever that is!)

I looked down at my mother's gloves and tried to picture my mother's hands in them.  They looked practically brand new and I realized that she probably had saved them for "special occasions" as she did with anything new or nice that she owned.  Brand new towels or dish clothes lay folded neatly in her hall closet drawers because they were saved for "company" and she made do with her worn towels and rags.  How odd even now that her hands were no longer there to put on these leather gloves or wipe with those towels - hands that had always been there to care for me over the years.  I still find it somewhat startling.

Last week I was going through my jewelry box and found my father's watch which he wore on his wrist every day.  His nightly ritual was to remove the watch just as he was laying down in his bed and put it on his nightstand.  He would place it meticulously in the same spot every night carefully facing it towards him.  The first thing he did the next morning was to reach out slowly for his watch with his trembling hands and slip it over his fingers onto his wrist.  The watch brought order and familiarity to his life especially as his mind drifted into the abyss of dementia.

My mother's untiring service to my siblings and myself remains in her gloves and is vividly alive as I look at my hands within them.  My father's daily dedication to his role as his family's provider is encapsulated in his watch.  It no longer is marking time but his mark upon us is timeless.  No one ever completely passes from  life.  My mother's gloves, my father's watch are reminders, touchstones, medallions, tokens, catalysts. Their lives continue.