She holds a tray in her left hand, and her head up with her right hand.
When they were innocent, they were smooth and white,
Strong for working,
Nimble for threading,
Swift for feeding,
and still light for loving.
It would seem that because of her reverence for self sacrifice,
these hands,
Rough from salting cabbage like laundry,
Worn from rubbing the steps of her family,
And cracked over the years of trembling misplaces,
It would seem her hands would lose its tenderness to soothe the nightmares into a ball of putty.
It would seem her hands would lose their warmth
and yet they blaze a fire with age that holds the stories of her ancestors.
I stare past her hands and see it is now me looking at my mamas hands
Her stature slight, yet her heart stretching high out of her body,
As I hold a tray and my head up high
With my mamas hands.

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2 thoughts on “Mama’s Hands

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