Hands,

The color of sweet caramel and once as smooth as porcelain,

Are now gritty, roughened by labor.

Constantly toiling, like bees in a continuous cycle,

These hands fly from task to task.

 

Hands,

That pull me from the deepest chasms,

Push me up the steepest mountains,

Lead me through the darkest shadows,

Anchor me through life’s harshest storms.

 

Time and work have not been gentle to these delicate instruments.

Bearing calluses as a constant reminder

Of youth’s delicateness turned coarse.

Soft are my own while hers are rough,

Hands marred with creases.

 

She envelops my hand in hers and suddenly,

I no longer see hands like parched earth—

Every crease,

Every line,

Every callous,

Reminds me of how truly remarkable they are.

 

Hands that protect…

 

Glowing brightly the moon bathes everything with its light

As silence fills the place while people slumber, all except her.

Preparing milk and guarding them as they sleep

With a flick of her hand, she swats away mosquitoes that hover near her babies.

 

Hands that nurture…

 

Heat builds up inside of me as sweat rolls down my neck, back drenched

She presses her hand on my forehead

Gently cooling my burning skin with a wet cloth.

With the touch of her hands, she soothes the aches

A silent promise that she’ll stay by my side.

 

Hands that guide…

 

I bring out papers and pencils as she tries to teach me how to write.

Slowly and carefully, I lean forward resting my chin on the sheet

As the lead mingles with the stark, white sheet

Mimicking her strokes

She places her hand over mine, producing perfect letters.

Her hands are my mentor and mine their pupil

 

Hands that comfort…

 

Rubbing soothing circles on my back,

Wiping falling tears,

Reassuring squeezes on the shoulder,

Gentle pats on the back—

Rejections, failures, heartache, loss, and pain

These hands never fail to provide the comfort I seek.

 

Hands that forgive…

 

Raising my voice

Bitter, painful words escape my lips directed to her

Watching with a sick sense of satisfaction as they cut deep

As anger disappears, guilt and regret takes its place,

She quietly holds my hand accepting my apology  

 

Hands that are patient…

 

Yearning for freedom and desiring to stand on my own

I pull my hand from hers

Paying little heed to her warnings

Stumbling through dips, sometimes falling

I find her hands reaching for me,

Always open.

 

These sandpaper hands  turn gentle against my skin

And in these moments I feel the love she harbors

A love different from the love I give her

A love I have yet to understand

Warm and strong, these hands shelter me providing solace

Soft and beautiful are the hands of a loving mother to her child.