Friday, November 13, 2009

My Mother's Hands



They were beautiful, your hands.
Fine-boned and classic.
Your one vanity.
They didn't reach out to
touch me often
but when they did, I knew it was a gesture
of your deepest
love.
Touching wasn't something
that came easily
to you
so when your fingers
stroked
my fevered brow
there was healing there
for me.
Not only did you soothe
my childish ills
but you eased
my childish
spirit.
I knew you loved me.
I did.
It was all there.
In your hands.
I looked down into the
dish water
the other day.
I saw your hands there
in my hands.
The same fine bones.
The same tapered fingers.
And where did they come from...
are they the hands of
your mother
or countless mothers
before us?
I don't know the answer to that.
But I do know
we travel on
from one generation
to another.
It's all there, the history.
It's in our hands.



-- March 5, 2006

5 comments:

Sandy said...

I remember when you posted this. It touched me then as it does now. Thanks for sharing. And, of course, you know I'm going through WOW. ;-)

Pam said...

This is lovely and so hearfelt and full of wisdom. You really do have the "soul of a poet". Glad you decided to participate in WOW's Writer's Forum.

June Freaking Cleaver said...

Isn't it surprising when we see our parents' features when we see ourselves? I guess genetics does trump all. Great poem! I also posted something for WOW today.

Cheryl said...

Lovely.

HORIZON said...

I see my mother's hands in mine too- think of her as l knit and remember her doing the same when l was a child. The poem was beautiful and tender Kris. We celebrate Mother's Day in April. Happy Mother's Day Kris- have been thinking of you.