Monday, May 14, 2012

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

1 comment:

  1. Lovely. I came across your poem while searching on Google.
    I hope you don't mind, but if used it in my own blog:

    Any problems, give me a shout.
    Best regards,