Her Hand

This is all through my Mom's eyes:

Sitting in church one day,
I looked over to my Mother.
She was staring blankly in front of her,
And holding my daughter’s hand.
I look at their hands together,
Contrasting one another.
The difference as bold as black and white,
Mother’s hand caught my eye.

Her hand was old,
Weathered and wrinkled.
It had held many cigarettes,
And many broken hearts.
It had patted many backs,
Held many other hands.
Her hand had opened many doors,
Lit many candles.
Touched many lives,
And helped many people who had fallen.
Her hand seemed,
To have every wrinkle accounted for.
This wrinkle had been chiseled helping someone,
This wrinkle had been carved by stress.
Leathery cold flesh surrounding,
Protruding knobby knuckles.
They contain wisdom,
And the proof of hard work.
They contain knowledge,
And show that many things have been done.
Many floors have been scrubbed,
Many sinks had been washed.
And now her hand lays tired,
Useless in my daughter’s hand.

My daughter’s hand was young and smooth,
The skin tight against her wrist.

The difference will always be there,
And someday I might be blessed with wise and worn hands.

Looking at her hand makes me weep,
It makes me so full of sorrow,
And I don’t know why.