Hands of Love

I remember the simpler times… slower times. I can feel the fan blowing from overhead. I can smell the biscuits in the oven and see the remnants of the dusting of flower. I can’t help but touch the butcher’s paper that held the thick-sliced bacon. I can still feel the residue between my finger and thumb. As I pass by the oven, a whisk of heat falls upon my cheek. I pull myself up on my toes to peer into the sink… a swirl of bubbles hangs tight against the edge, pulling away from the haphazard arrangement of the thick, heavy dishes.

There was a movement… much as in a choreographed dance. There was a rhythm to mealtime. There was an order and a placement. It felt like a symphony coming to a crescendo. The meal was ready and the activity pulled like gravity toward the busy kitchen table. Some needed to be called to the kitchen… most instinctively knew.

There was always pride in the preparation. There was a purpose in the place-setting. The dishes have generations of stories to tell. The tablecloths were soft from years of washing and ironing. How many tales were told upon this table cloth? How many of the young were taught and persuaded into manners? Everyone had their place according to age and respect. I can remember the adultness in the prayer. I peeled the words that I remembered from my tongue as I lipped a rehearsed prayer… the same prayer my children instinctively recite today.

Then there were the linen napkins… they were always part of the meal. I can see the folds in them as we prepare to eat... our mouths watering with anticipation. They were kept in a special place… a place known to all. There was a quiet feel to these napkins. I can see them in the market… new and crisp. Loving hands held them and smoothed the folds. They must have been a luxury to purchase. I can see them wrapped in thin, crispy paper… tied with white, soft packaging string.

Linens were hand washed separately… they were special. I can see the inspection after each washing… looking for an errant spill or stain... a visual inspection of the monogram. Carefully, they had been ironed… never too much heat. Always was the attention to detail and the rub of a familiar hand… lovingly smoothing out the seams… placing them in that familiar place, ready for the family… ready for another meal.

The loving home… the loving friends and family… the food, the aroma, the wood and the quiet and the calm… it was always there. The smiles that fed our souls were there. The chatter and the looks of approval were always with us. When we placed our napkins on our laps, there was an instinct to place them squarely and to smooth out the seams. The hands of love have always been with us through every meal.

Shannon R Killman