My mother's hand: A story by Narayani V Manapadam

What a homecoming it was!!

My dad checked my temperature. 100°F. "Have a paracetamol and take rest", he advised me.

I nodded. Had it been a mistake to return home? No, this must be a figment of my hyperactive imagination.

Just then, granny came with a bowl of piping hot chicken soup. I took it gratefully. That soothed my throat. But why was I missing something?

"I have prepared your bed, dear", granny smiled at me.

I looked at her. A pregnant pause followed. It was now or never!

"Granny. I will sleep in mom's room."

My dad opened his mouth to say something, but a fierce glare from granny made him stop.

"As you wish, Freya."

I opened the door to her room. A pristine white bedsheet had been draped over the cot. I recognized the floral pattern. Her hands indeed possessed magic.

I lay down on the bed and drew the quilt over my hot body. I closed my eyes.

How many hours passed? Or was it minutes?

That unmistakable soft touch of her hand. Caressing my forehead. Singing a lullaby. I didn't open my eyes. I was too scared. Of losing her again.

Those hands ran over my hair. Held my fingers. Squeezed them. I felt weightless, floating in the universe. Drifting... off to a peaceful sleep. In my mom's room. In the same room where she breathed her last.