Mary lifted her gnarled forefinger crippled from arthritis. Pressing the call button had become the most difficult ordeal of her day.

“What is it, Mary?” asked the nurse.

“I need to be changed. I’m so sorry.”

“All right then, darlin’. I’ll be right there with some fresh clothing.”

Mary stared down at the back of her hands. Liver spots and raised veins had replaced the soft and smooth skin of her youth. Suddenly her mind pictured herself as a child again. She picked up the baseball in her right hand and peered across the lawn.

“You throw like a girl!” shouted Sam.

“I am a girl,” she snapped back. “Well then, get ready for this.”

Mary reared back her arm and threw the ball toward her brother, who stood there holding his baseball glove just above his nose.

“Mommy, help!” Sam rushed into the kitchen with blood streaming from a cut above his eye. Their mother had gone next door for something. Mary had followed Sam inside. She took a washcloth in her hand and patted the cut on her brother’s head until the bleeding had stopped and Mom had come back home.

Mary looked at the palm of her right hand and another memory came to her.

She was a young mother, holding her little girl, Nicole, with one hand and rocking her newborn son, Jason, with the other while she waited for Andy to come home from work. It was their anniversary. Four years ago, he had taken her hand at the altar. They made a promise of a lifetime together and every night since, they held hands under the covers before they fell asleep.

Mary looked at the palm of her left hand and tried to squeeze it together. She could only go halfway, but that sent her mind back to the day Nicole had pulled into the driveway at 5 o’clock in the morning.

“We’re done, Mom,” she said at the door with a face full of tears. “This time for good. I’m calling a lawyer in the morning.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Mary said, pulling a coat over her shoulders.

“Mom, It’s dark outside.”

“Sun’ll be up in an hour. Let’s walk out to the lake.”

She took Nicole’s hand in hers, but Mary felt some resistance. As they walked into the sunrise, Nicole moved her hand deeper into Mary’s. They talked about love, marriage and divorce. When they returned home, and despite the throbbing pain of arthritis that was traveling down her fingers, Mary lifted the cast-iron pan and placed it on the stove. Andy was awake now and she made a big breakfast of bacon and eggs and blueberry pancakes.

Two years later, Nicole came out of the delivery room holding her newborn daughter. She handed her baby to Mary, and as she held her first grandchild, she raised her right hand to wipe a river of tears of happiness from her face.

Mary flexed her right hand, and when she opened it, she was standing at her kitchen table holding the last piece of a puzzle that her children had given her for Christmas many moons ago. The puzzle was made from a picture of Jason, his wife, Carolyn, their two sons, Christopher and Jonathan, Nicole with her new husband, Martin, and their 2-year-old daughter, Katie.

Her minded shifted. On Mother’s Days, Mary had kept up the tradition of planting her flower garden, but as the years went by and the arthritis worsened, she couldn’t hold her small shovel anymore. Refusing to give up, she dug the holes for her plants with the shoes on her feet just like a dog digs to bury a bone.

Mary’s eyes narrowed as she tried to make a fist with her left hand. One night, Jason had come home drunk and angry after breaking up with his fiancee. Andy confronted him at the door.

“What are you, stupid? said Andy. “You drove home like this? You could have killed yourself or someone else.”

“Dad, get out of my way,” Jason mumbled as he pushed into his father’s chest. “Get out of my way!” He raised his fist toward his father’s face.

“Go ahead,” said Andy. “You’d better knock me out with one punch because if you don’t. …”

Mary charged over to them. “Stop it, both of you!” She put her left hand on her son’s neck and her right hand on Andy’s. She kneaded their tight muscles like she was kneading the dough for her homemade bread that she often made. Jason collapsed into his father’s arms and cried. Andy helped Mary get him to bed. In the morning, their son apologized.

Mary turned her right hand over, and with her thumb on her left hand, she traced the lifelines in her palm that become so pronounced since she had come to the nursing home.

Her mind then flashed to Andy’s hospital bed where she had taken his hand into hers and held it all through the night. Three days after, she touched his face and gently stroked her fingers down to his chin while he lay in the casket. She quietly said goodbye after 47 years of life with her beloved.

“OK, darlin’,” said the nurse. “Let’s get you into these clean pajamas. Mary? Mary?”

Mary was lying still in her bed. Her arms were upon her sides and the palms of her hands were opened up toward the ceiling. The nurse took a step forward. She smiled and touched Mary’s face and gently stroked her fingers down to her chin.

Rich Strack can be reached at richiesadie11@gmail.com.