Maggie Rue Hess

My Mother’s Hands — died on August 1, 2018, beside her on the hospital bed. They laid as flat as the papers of a will. Unlike paper, her hands were soft and warm; unlike a will, they granted nothing. In them, a history of touch archived in bottles of Jergens and Aveeno scattered around the house. When we got back from the hospital, each sibling laid claim to a different piece of jewelry; I took a tanzanite ring that fit my finger only because it had been squeezed out of shape. Years of moisturizer and massages pushed the gold into a pointed oval. Tanzanite is sometimes used as December’s birthstone. Heat and pressure, birthing gems. On my right ring finger, the memory of pain and treatment. The husband before the husband who gifted her this ring was born two days before Christmas. One a marriage cut short. One a marriage of heat and pain, pressure and treatment that failed. I gifted myself a botched memorial from its misshapen promise.