My Mother's Hands

I know everything about my mother’s hands.

I remember their touch now, as if they are

cradling me,

the way they did before I could walk,

lifting me up,

the way they did when I fell and ripped a hole in my pants,

holding tight,

the way they did on our way to school,

patting my back,

the way they did when I graduated,

hugging me,

the way they did when I moved out,

surrounding me,

the way they did when I finally, finally came home.

They are strong hands,

they are rough hands,

they are hands that work and care.

I hope one day my hands will look like hers.

To be held by those hands means to be safe.

No matter what happens,

if those hands hold me,

all of my fear fades.