The Invisible Hand

Where is it? I am looking at all corners, in the hidden white skirt of the dress- and I cannot find it. I swear it had been there. I tilt the photograph as if the light would do some magical trick on my eyes, and make the hand reappear in the place where the mind placed it.

I hold it at eye-level, look across the photo ink. No, it's not there. I check the empty spaces the waist left between the arms- they're filled with the white fluff of the hand-knitted dress. White pompoms. Watermelon cap sleeves. I check the darkened edges of the right hand resting on the right knee- do I see a shadow? If I tilted it a little bit to the left? A tad to the right? Maybe...

Reality: the hand is no where to be found. It is gone. And I am lost.

I am waiting for my hubby's call to see what train he's taking. I put the picture back in the frame. Back out of my mind. I cannot possibly write about a hand that I cannot see, I cannot find. The picture goes back into its silver engraved frame.

4 days later...

It had to be there. I pick up the frame, release the black clasps against the faux-velvet backing. I am determined. The hand has to be there. It's got to be.

I bring the photograph to a better lit spot, our dining room table. I set it against our blue place mats. I sit and stare. Somewhere, only George Michael is heard: "Don't let the sun go down on me..." I notice I am biting my lower lip, sinking my teeth deep enough to feel a tinge of pain. I leave the photograph. Walk over to get a glass of Puntalta- made from 100% Graciano grapes. My new fave. In my Riedel stemless glass. Even better.

I stare away from the photograph. The radio moves onto Pat Benatar. I close my eyes in pure disbelief. I am never wrong. How can I be so disillusioned about the hand in the picture? All these years, I thought the hand was holding me gently by my left side- with its gracious liver spots, the hand supporting me sitting up straight and tall and confident. I don't want to admit that I am mistaken- I could swear it was there. I cannot be wrong.

I take another full sip. I look at me when I was exactly a year old- that's more than 32 years ago. Sitting on some chair in some studio in Istanbul. My head looks big- I think it still is: I can barely get my Cape Cod sweatshirt on without some heavy-duty tucking & pulling! My left ear almost stands out. I am looking at a distant point, smiling. Perhaps, at the owner of the hand?

I am not so giggly in this picture- you cannot see my dimples. Yet, the double-chin is visible. There's some light reflecting off my eyes. No sign of teeth. Mouth clenched close. A white turtleneck layered under the white woolen dress. Wool always itches my skin. My hands resting on my knees. You cannot tell that I have long fingers. The right hand has dimples on it- so pudgy and still. Index finger bent in half, the others spread out. Black and white studio photo. A classic.

Maybe I pushed myself thinking there was a hand in this photo. Maybe I always wanted it to be there. Holding me up, encouraging me, supporting me- even in this silly studio shot. Those liver spotted hands: roughened by calluses; weathered by years; saddened by recent turn of events.

The hands that tended a picture-perfect rose garden, labored over coffee made just-right. The hands that I reached at 4 a.m. asking for food- caramelized flan, fried eggplant, chocolate pudding,...- and received. Same hands that gently walked out of the room after an afternoon nap. Same hands that solved crossword puzzles, mixed a mean gin & tonic, and fixed buttons.

Now, I cannot see the evidence. Where did it go?