Mama hands and her virtual universe

I remember my mother sitting in front of a computer in the mid-90s, writing down encrypted Norse patterns from a video game, to decode the most advanced puzzles to get to the next level in the virtual universe, Raven. If she was intent on her task, we hardly noticed. Her hands did it for her, scribbling and scratching like a comfort doodle while talking on the telephone, like a life drawing in the park. Nonchalant decoder.

It was like her crossword puzzles on a clipboard before she went to bed. Very serious braintainment puzzle accomplishment achieved in her most intimate moments. Pijamas, with cat, soft warm relaxed skin in bed. Advanced sudokus, all filled in, beside her in bed as she slept.

I don't even remember playing Raven because it was too difficult, too obtuse, too confusing and multilayered. I feel like one day I asked my mom what happened to that game and she probably answered, half paying attention, oh I solved it, it was all right.

It was a bit like those afternoons on sunny weekends where suddenly mom wouldn't answer the phone and then we of course asked "where the heck have you been?" And shed just answer, "the GARDEN" with a giant breath and excitement in her eyes and active veins in her forearms. I have absolutely no clue what she did back there, or why. Weeding, I guess. Sometimes she said she moved some things around. All I know is nothing ever died unless it was supposed to, and her hands did all the work. Sometimes she would come back with a snapping sprout, or a sliced up hand, or a black, bruised index fingernail, or worse, a worm. These things were worth sharing.

And then there were dozens of rolls of cloth and drawers of needles and thimbles and old bullets from wars and magnifying glasses. All were used for making quilts. I don't ever remember any quilt she made, but I remember the sound if the machine. Hours of silence, calmness, and the tvktvktvktvkk. Tvktvktvktvkk. Her hands did it for her.