Handprint on My Heart

Once upon a time, there was a tiny Nana who personified true unconditional love.  She kept a small cabinet full of art materials for her granddaughter, Mary. There was an endless supply of paper, pens, crayons, and sketchbooks. This was my special spot in the house I loved so very much. I had boldly marked my territory using a black crayon to trace my 5-year-old hand on the cabinet door. Nana never scolded me and she never removed it; she encouraged my love of drawing and creating stories wholeheartedly. 

When I walked through Nana’s house for the last time, I took pictures to forever remind me of this special haven. My husband held my hand reassuringly. He knew just how difficult this final visit was for me. The hardest part was looking at my cabinet door and preparing to leave it for the last time. Suddenly, an idea dawned on me. I opened the cabinet and sure enough, there was still paper inside. I took out a sheet and laid it over the handprint. Then, I rubbed a quarter over the back of the paper. When I lifted the sheet, I was thrilled to see the outline of my little hand had transferred to the paper. Tears of happiness welled in my eyes as I realized I wouldn’t have to leave it behind after all.

This handprint represented so much: the act of treasuring and nurturing a child’s creativity, the ever-present love that shined in Nana’s eyes, and the beauty of embracing one’s true essence. Nana rarely gave me advice, but I vividly recalled her words of wisdom offered in my college years. She stood in front of me, held my hands, and said, “Don’t ever stop creating. You were blessed with a talent; you must use it.” Even if I hadn’t been able to salvage my handprint, I know that the love given so freely left a handprint on my heart that can never be erased.