My mother’s hands are strong and slender.

They can erase a stomach-ache with a touch and wipe away a fever.

Her hands are fast and have cooked
ten thousand meals.

They are firm and can hold you forever.

Her hands are blemished and beautiful.

They are small and fit inside my own
as I hold them tight.

My hands are gentle
as they wash my mother’s thinning hair.

So strange now. Mine look so much like
my mother’s hands.