My mother’s hands

When I was growing up, my mom often held my hands in hers.  She would carefully size my palms against hers and remark how quickly I was growing.  She would trace my fingers and marveled at how long they were.  They would be prettier than hers, she was convinced.  Little did she know then, no other hands could be more beautiful than hers. To me.

Time has but left its indelible mark 

now wills her fingers to bend with pain

the hands that welcome work never cease

chafed and stiff, they will not relinquish

 

These very hands helped color my dreams

when black and white I could merely see

Tender, caring, righteous, ever courageous

they instilled love, strength, sowed goodness in purpose

 

Constant, they firmly held on 

when everyone else were long gone

lifted me when my fractured self suffocated in doubts

quietly empowered when I cowered

 

Admittedly, at times, I’d pushed them away callously

only for them to wait patiently

till they could hold mine again 

ever so lovingly

 

My mother’s hands, weathered, worn

let me hold them now with joy and gratitude

let me love them in many ways 

let me hold them now and always

 

 

 

*Image by Public Co from Pixabay 

 

 

 

 

 

28 thoughts on “My mother’s hands

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