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