My Mother's Hands

A short tribute to my sweet mother who may not

remember me, but that's okay.  She's still a sweet

and smiling person that I call Mom.

I’ll never forget my mother’s hands.

When I was a child, her hands

            were young and smooth, and

now worn and blemished, but beautiful .

My mother’s hands were always there.

These hands have held her

babies and wrapped them

with love.

These hands tied our shoes,

buttoned our dresses,

held our hands as we crossed

the street.

These hands were cool on

our fevered brow during

those childhood illnesses.

These hands picked us up

when we fell.

They soothed the many hurts

of life.

These hands have written letters,

dialed the phone,

worked crossword puzzles,

sewn our clothes,

crocheted baby blankets,

cooked meals,

washed dishes,

brushed hair.

Then came the time

these hands held her grandchildren

when they wanted to play.

Through the journey of life,

my parents held tightly to each other’s hand,

letting go, only when separated

by death.

I know she's looking to hold her husband's hand
            once again, and soon the time will come.
            And I know I'll always remember my mother's
            hands.