To look upon one's hands, to examine the lines on your hands, to see the lines as like a map, a treasure map, a drawing of lines and spots, hands that are strong, efficient, fingernails polished, but not with color, transparency only, honesty, truth, hands that never committed a crime. Hands that changed diapers, one child one generation after another, another child, another generation, mom's hands that cooked baby foods.
Hands of one's grandma's that cleaned clothes by hand, wringing out one garment after the other, all water to drip off, using a metal/wooden washboard, clothing appliances not yet established, no washing machines, no dryers. The Great Depression, The Prohibition, not to financially afford dry cleaning, no jobs, no money. Bankruptcy all too common, eating "stone soup" a cut up onion, one large white onion to go around an entire dining room table, no sugar, no beer.
Modest clothing, clothing cleaned by hand, arthritis setting in to grandma's hands. Father's hands to use a typewriter, suffering strokes, heart attacks, carpal tunnel syndrome. Desperately needing to communicate, writing letters sent from the Ukraine to Chicago, The Holocaust, family's letters stopped coming, no more letters, not knowing how our family died?? Pogroms? Death Camps? No more letters, no more love. Darkness, yarhzeits, Days of Death. Death everywhere, but clothes that are clean. Soft clothes, nothing fancy, cleaned with pure water, not to need dry cleaning.
All the clothes hangers neatly arranged in one's closets, all facing the same direction. A clothes closet of cleanliness, arranged by strong hands, though arthritic fingers, grandma's hands, mom's hands, my hands.
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