When I was still a small creature, she steadied me on the back of a horse, like a solid anchor at my back, one that could never be unseated. The day I held the reins for the first time, she placed her hand over mine to help me guide our mount. If I fell off, she picked me back up, dusting me off and checking for injuries.
She had a healing way about her hands. All the neighborhood kids would bring little injured animals to her, asking her to save them. Half the time she knew it was too late, “but I will try,” she would say. She’d cup the baby bunnies and mice in her warm palms and feed them every couple of hours. All day, all night. When they didn’t make it, she shed tears for them. When they did, she joyfully released them back into the wild.
I learned how to dig small graves in a corner of the property, but it wasn’t a very big graveyard. She saved most of her patients.
Hands wrapping wire around a t-post. Hands digging holes to plant flowers. Hands playing with puppies, petting horses, clasped in my dad’s hands. Wrapped around me in a hug. These are my memories of her and of her strong, capable hands. With them, she could do anything.
S. G. Baker's Blog 