Pretty Little Handkerchiefs

My mother worked the midnight shift as a Charge Nurse in the ER. Working that shift meant my parents didn't have to pay a babysitter for me and my older brother. By the time she had to leave to get to the hospital, she'd fed and bathed us. Then we'd ride in the backseat of the car as my father drove her to work. After she got out of the car, waved to us and disappeared inside, my father wouldn't drive away. The three of us would stay in that car, looking up towards a window overlooking the circular drive. The window was in the office of the Nun in charge. Our mother would get to that window and wave goodbye again. On the way back home it was as if she was still in the car. I could smell her Avon deodorant and whatever she'd used to keep both her hair and starched white cap in place. Besides those familiar scents, I also remember a leather-type bag she always brought back and forth with her. It held books she might be reading. It also held whatever project she was working on; projects that kept her fingers busy and her mind released of some of the stress she was under. Of course I wasn't aware of that stress back then. I just liked riding in the car in my pajamas.

Of all the projects she worked on, her hand-embroidered handkerchiefs amazed me the most. The designs were so dainty. They were mostly little flowers with little leaves. The colors were happy. Beautiful. She kept that bag near a chair by a window in the den. Sometimes I'd sit in that chair. I'd reach in and take out whatever she was working on. If I pulled out knitting needles or embroidery needles, I would spend a few minutes pretending I knew how to use them.  I was especially happy when I pulled out those pretty little handkerchiefs. I'd take my finger and follow the stitches. I'd check the other side of the handkerchief which was as neat as the front.

When I was a teenager, we moved to the country. In the afternoons in the summertime, I'd do the family ironing. Back then everything was ironed. Even towels and sheets were ironed. Once in a while my mother would open a top drawer of her dresser. It held all of those pretty little handkerchiefs. She'd gather them and hand-wash each one using Woolite in the kitchen sink. Then she'd lay them on the table. When they were dry, she'd let me iron them after adjusting the temperature. I took my time. I'd take that iron carefully around each cluster of leaves and flowers embroidered in a corner of each handkerchief. I knew how precious they were. I knew the nurse found such pleasure in her work. Both as a Charge Nurse in the ER and as a Designer of precious little handkerchiefs.

I don't remember her ever actually using one. I think that's because she considered each a piece of art. And I would have to agree.