I remember as a child my dear Grandmother washing my hands in the bathroom sink. It wasn't like the fiberglass sinks of our day with fancy designs melted into it all square with a wood cabinet to hold it.
It was a huge cast iron sink- white, the pipes ran down the length of the wall to be seen as was the drain and it had spigots, two of them. Cold water from the right, hot left and water flowed from these spigots with smooth power. The drain was the size of a half dollar.
Grandmothers hands had seen their years, wrinkled, age spots and twisted some with arthritis but she never lost her touch.
She dipped her hands into the water shaking off the excess and then she applied soap rubbing her hands together over and under. Then I would dip my hands in the great pool of water that was the sink, warm soothing water.
Then gently would her hands and fingers intertwine with mine. I would look up at her face as the rubbing ritual of washing took place and she would smile, usually no words were said. She would reach for a towel and lightly rub my hands and fingers careful to get dry in between the fingers. She folded the towel in her special way and I, yes I would pull the stopper from the sink, "off you go" she'd say as the last gurgle made it's way up the sink drain.
This was more than a kind act, this was love.
Done lovingly. Always lovingly.
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