My Mother’s Hands

I used to see them cooking,
cleaning up the stove.
They pressed cool compresses on my forehead,
tickled my arms when I felt alone.

They held my hand as we walked through stores,
brushed my hair on a cold winters night.
Laced up my ice skates at the local rink,
tapped on my door to apologize after a fight.

Almost 40 years I’ve watched those hands give,
they have healed, they have baked, they have sewn.
And now as I wake and prepare for my day,
I see her hands and I realize they are my own.


(c) Andrea Lobue All Rights Reserved

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