calloused and arthritic,
I hold within my own youthful hands.
These hands have seen dishes
and raising four siblings
and working three jobs to support us.
They’ve seen money
earned and then spent,
on private schooling and dance.
These hands are a reflection
of what good work ethic is
and what being a good mother took
but they never saw a slap to my face.
They represent love, patience, endurance.
They show how age finds us all
and that each wrinkle tells a story.
They remember the shape of a good friend’s face,
the last time they held her husband’s hand,
the first time she held me as a baby.
Her story is mine to tell.
All great hands should be remembered
for the work they’ve done,
the children they raised,
the unconditional love each hand represents.