When I think about my mother,
I can't help but think of her hands.
She had strong, dutiful hands.
They never tired.
They were relentless, efficient, beautiful.
Simply adorned,
with one gold ring:
her wedding band.
Her hands define her.
The work of her hands qualify her.
Their power illuminate her.
Their legacy expanded beyond
the confines of her home.
Firm hands
taught me swiftly.
Lessons clearly learned.
Tender hands
gently stroke the hair
from my eyes.
Stiff pinpricked fingers toil
to finish my quilt by hand when
the machine broke
to meet the deadline-- Christmas.
exuberant hands reach out,
fingers spread wide,
anticipating a child who is running to greet her.
White hot scalding water
reddens deadened hands
as they wash Christmas china.
Lotion laden hands
rub our feet.
Everyone of us.
Her tense hands cup her mouth,
propelling her voice to my ear,
"Go Stacy, get that
ball."
Supportive hands lift a child's head
to place a pillow
for comfort.
Paint smeared hands work
next to mine, in my house
on her time, more than once.
Happy hands,
grabbing, patting, touching, soothing
arms, backs, faces, hands.
Gentle hands.
caressing, massaging, comforting, clasping,
until they were put to rest
Resurrected playful hands tickle her nurse,
hold my hand, tease my dad.
An answer to my prayer.
My miracle.
When I think of my mom,
I can't help but think of her hands.
"When our eyes see our hands doing the work of our hearts, the circle of creation is completed inside us, the doors of our souls fly open and love steps forth to heal everything in sight."
Michael Bridge
