MY MOTHER'S HANDS

Fingers long and thin,

Unadorned,

Just a simple

Gold wedding band.

Nails tough, yet tenderly maintained:

These were my mother’s hands.

These were the hands

That rocked me with her strength,

Dressed me within her protective care,

Fed me from her sustenance,

 And kneaded my imagination.

Her hands soothed and scolded,

Guided and provided,

Only to be pushed away

By my hands

And the assertion:

“I can do it by myself.”

When my hands held

My firstborn child,

I could better understand,

How the hands that hold,

Can find it hard to let go.

In time, her wrinkled hands

 Pushed mine away.

I’d reach for her arm and elbow,

As she walked unsteadily,

Only to meet her resistance:

“I can do it by myself.”

Eventually, we both grasped

The firm comfort of our hands

In rhythm together:

My right hand in her left,

As my left hand supported her left elbow:

And in stride we would walk.

Until swollen and plump,

With mounds of skin swallowing

Her wedding band,

Wired and taped,

Steroided and sedated,

With tender blue, purple bruises-

Her hands lay quiet to the beat of the Ventilator.

So, her hands I held,

And I let her go.

And as she breathed

Her very last breath,

Her spirit took flight

At her physical death.

Yes, I fully understand

How the hands that hold

Can find it so terribly hard

 to let go.

-Patricia T. Steely

Written:  May 12, 2005

Revised:  May30, 2005

Read at Mom’s funeral