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My Mother's hands

I look at my mom as I sit beside her.
I see the parts of me that took after her.

I smile like her.
My eyes crinkle when I smile too—just like hers do.

I look at the wrinkles around her eyes and wonder...
There must have been a time when her eyes shone with youthful beauty.

I see her face, her cheeks now stout and chubby with age and time.
And I remember—
There must have been a time when her skin was smooth and fair,
Filled with vitality and elixir-like beauty.

I look at my mom’s belly—
Thick and big with age and time.
The same belly that carried me for nine months.

I know there must have been a time when her body was lean,
Curvy, fit,
Radiating with youthful glow.

And then,
I see her hands.

Her wrinkled, rough hands.
Her fingers still so slender and long—
Womanly and beautiful.

She could have been a hand model,
If she wanted to, when she was young.

But now…
They’re rough and tanned,
From working hard all her life,
Taking care of a husband and three daughters.

Her wrinkled hands tell me—
She is aging.
And unfortunately,
Time waits for no one.

I behold her palm—thick and rough.
And I tear up inside as I realize:

These hands held me with love, care, and affection all my life.
These tired, rough, beautiful hands
Have loved me through every part of my life.

Sometimes,
I fear for my mother.
Being a wife and a mother
Seems to be such a burden for her at times.

And now she’s going through the Change—
Where she feels heat intensely,
Where she sweats profusely,
Where her thoughts and words seem disenchanted.

And yet,
She still has to be a mother.
Still has to be a wife.

My mom’s hands—
So slender, so long,
So beautiful.

The hands that will love me
Until the day life comes to take her away from me.

My mother gave me my hands.

The 23-year-old hands of mine.
Soft and smooth and fair,
Like my mother’s
When she used to be me.

But my hands are marred with scars—
Scars of my own deeds.

I look at my hands and wonder—
Would my mother be sad looking at them?

So youthful, so fair,
Yet so scarred.

I wonder if it breaks her heart.
I wonder if it pains her soul.

My mother, who prays all night for me.
Who has always loved me as I am,
Yet still pushes me to be better.

My mother.
Her hands.
Her beautiful hands—

Will be six feet under someday.

And someday,
I know this:

I will never again feel the love and devotion
That I have felt through those hands.

The hands that loved me,
Fed me,
Cared for me.

A mother’s love.

I know that someday,
It’ll be taken away.

And that is when I will know—
I no longer have a mother.

And a tear fell down my eye,
As I cursed tomorrow.


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