These are my mother’s hands.
The blue veins pulsing against the
pale, pink skin.
Fingers long, but not thin,
flexible, but incapable of stretching
Across the keys to play a song.
Nails kept neat, clean, growing
until brittle and breaking
A cycle that begins again.
The hands remind me of a gentle pat
on the head,
A temperature checked,
A tissue passed.
They remind me of newspaper
shared,
Exclamations pronounced,
Laughs shared as stories fall like
rain around me.
These are my mother’s hands.
My mother’s hands were nets.
Drawing in strangers and friends.
My mother’s hands were boats
A place to rest in the storm,
comforting until still.
My mother’s hands were nests.
They caressed my beating thoughts
until I nestled safely under her palm.
My mother’s hands were open and
waiting.
Reaching out to those who were
lost or lonely,
In my mother’s hands they would
find a home.
I hold my mother's hands.
I hold them, making them my own.
