My Mother’s Hands Are Becoming Mine

I noticed it this morning

while washing a cup

  you once held

     between both hands.

The skin around my knuckles

has begun to fold

  the way yours did.

Small rivers

appearing beneath the surface,

  carrying me back

     to every ordinary afternoon

        I failed to understand

           was temporary.

Your hands knew

how to mend a torn sleeve,

  how to test a fever

     without waking me,

        how to peel an apple

           in one long ribbon

              that never broke.

I used to watch them

move through the kitchen

  as if nothing in this world

     could ever disappear.

Now I find them

  at the ends

of my arms.

They button my coat.

They turn the pages

of books

  you never finished.

They reach for the phone

before remembering

  there is no number

     that leads to you.

Sometimes

I hold them

  beneath the light

     and search for proof

        that grief has changed me.

There you are,

in the faint blue veins,

  in the wedding ring

     I still cannot wear,

        in the careful way

           my fingers fold a towel

              into three perfect parts.

I hated these hands

for surviving you.

  For touching the things

     you left behind.

        For learning how to carry groceries,

           how to lock the door,

              how to keep living

                 without asking permission.

But tonight

they trembled

  while making your recipe,

     and for one terrible second

        I thought you had returned.

Not through the door.

  Not from the grave.

        Not in a dream.

But quietly,

        through bone,

     through blood,

  through every gesture

I inherited

without knowing.

My mother’s hands

are becoming mine.

And I do not know

  whether this is another way

of losing you,

or the only way

I have left

  to hold you.