LAYERS OF LOVE

by Robyn Conley

"First you sprinkle the flour all over the counter." As soon as I said the words to my nine-year-old daughter I realized they weren't really my words. They were Mom's. She'd said the same thing to me nearly thirty years earlier.

"Like this?"

I watched Samantha's chubby hand reach into the flour jar and poof a fistful onto the counter.

"Perfect," I nodded then I reached for the wooden rolling pin that had once belonged to my mom--another step back in time.

Glancing down as I worked the dough, I wondered when my hands had turned into her hands. They were the same length and shape as the flour-coated ones I watched punch and shape the dough when I was a youngster.

"We'll be ready for the butter as soon as I squish out all these air bubbles."

Samantha scooted the butter tub closer as I rolled the pin across the dough's sticky surface. "Can I smear it?"

Now even her words echoed mine at that age.

"Of course," and mine echoed Mom's. As I watched Samantha slather butter, it amazed me how much my hands had become my mom's and Samantha's expressions had become mine.

The reality hit me hard. In the layers of flour, butter, cinnamon, and sugar, our family's love swirled full circle. And yet a layer was missing.

Mom was gone this year. Would that circle continue? Would my hands be up to the challenge of sharing the important layers of love that she had passed on to me? Even more important, twenty years from now would Samantha feel the need to stretch and slather our family's closeness around the next generation?

After she finished with the butter, I sprinkled on sugar--again lost in the hands that tugged at memory's apron. Mom's hands weren't always powdery with flour. Most often they were full from carrying what we needed and never remembered--like a clean tissue, or what we never wanted and always hated--like a used tissue.

Although seldom empty, Mom's hands had room to hold what was really necessary, most often it was a tinier hand if one of us was scared in a crowd. They whopped bottoms on occasion, mended favorite shirts, and peeled a million potatoes. They folded more socks and underwear than most department stores display in a year.

Hands that were graceful across a piano keyboard could hammer a stubborn floorboard into submission. They could carry an armload of groceries on one hip and a tuckered toddler on the other, somehow opening the front door at the same time. The ear-scratches she gave our family pooches were as plentiful as the tiny waves she gave us big kids while she hurried around the house taking care of the little kids.

I remember those waves. Shortly before her death she told me she wished she could have waved less and held more. Perhaps that's why I savor the memory of her hands. Often it was the only love she could share when a dirty diaper on a younger sibling took priority over ogling the masterpiece I'd just scribbled in my coloring book.

Looking at my daughter coated in layers of butter and brown sugar, I see myself. I hold out my hand--Mom's hand--and Samantha takes it--two gooey palms, still dusted around the edges in flour, joining with another from a generation ago. Silently I whisper thanks to Mom. Hold more and wave less, I tell myself. Surely then the love will rise and swirl much stronger than temporary layers of spices and sugar. And the flavor will be much sweeter.

"Like this?" Samantha asks again, releasing me and rolling up the dough.

I ignore the tears threatening my vision and instead smile at her stubby fingers. "Perfect," I tell her. And for the first time since Mom's death, I believe our family's love will always remain well-layered.

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