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.