Desert Sun

I swear that every year when it gets cold, my mother’s hands begin to resemble crocodile skin. Their smooth pale surface cracks into little red ridges, that connect and cross down her fingers in grid-like patterns, running down to the scabs that wreath her fingernails. Everywhere the skin has been stretched taunt and peeled too far back by the cold, as if even the temperature was intent on wrecking violence upon her. She complains every day as she applies her extra strength hand lotion, “goddamn Midwestern winters.”

Each time I witness her ritual I ask, “why don’t you move to the Southwest?” She laughs, usually responds with something along the lines of, “oh no, over there its dry heat, even worse on my poor hands.” I wonder if she understands that when I tell her to move I don’t mean it for the health of her hands. If she does notice, she always dismisses the insinuation.

This last time, still rubbing lotion, she had wandered into the living room to see what I was watching, and after our usual exchange a peculiar commercial started. We both paused and turned to watch while the voice-over boomed: “tired of those Midwestern winters? Well here’s the solution! Move on out to the sunny Southwest where that desert sun dances right above your head and keeps all that snow-related sadness far away. No depression can hide under this glare baby! We see absolutely everything here.”

I muted the television. We were both silent. My mother stared off into space, eyes unfocused, rubbing her hands together. Then she shook her head, as if to break away her thoughts from a weighted chain, and walked back down the hallway.

SM Nov 2010