2022-05-04T16:01:48-07:00March 21st, 2011|Musings on life, Parenthood|

My mother’s hands

One day I was slicing tomatoes
with my mother’s hands.

Gone were my small ones
and in their place
her wider ones,
wrinkled knuckles,
veins like raised relief
mountains on an antique globe.

I thought I would miss
the idleness of my former pair,
known to sleep in and outsource
the vacuuming.

But when I touched my cheeks
with her cool smooth palms,
I left them there for a long time,
understanding that I was now
the one he will seek out
to feel safe.

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