Hands
I saw my mother’s hands up close for the first time in a long while.
Corded sinews, thick and veiny
I noticed the loose folds, slackness in the skin
Yet her fingers remained taut and strong
It must be the forty years of piano playing
The months of conjuring up luminous melodies
Wisking up illustrious foundations
For us to lend our voices to
I saw my mother’s hands; how frail they are now
So aged, lines cascading through the sand
No longer pale and teeming with vigor
But oh, the stories etched into that skin!
Equal times at the boardroom and tenderly giving at home
She walked a tightrope, straddling two distinct worlds
Bounding up and down with limitless enthusiasm
Imposing, magnetic, firm, a people-person, they called her
I saw my mother’s hands as they soothed our cries
A paragon of love, tirelessly tending,
Tying shoes, brewing your favorite chicken soup
Teaching us all we knew about life, and then some
Her hands were ours to hold when we were scared
Her hands were ours to wipe our tears with
Her hands were ours to scrub our uniforms clean
Fed us that bitter pill when we held back choking coughs
Now her hands are sunken and sickly
Now those hands mask choking coughs
Now those hands grasp onto our arms
Clamoring for support
It all began with those loving hands
May I never forget what these hands have done for me
May I never forget those stories of yesteryear
It all began with my mother’s hands
