Mum’s hands, today.

These are the hands which held me,

nurtured me,

loved me.

Tended to the falls, the cuts, the bruises,

the broken arms.

These are the healing hands.

These are the hands which held mine

in joy, in sadness, in companionship, in guidance.

These are the hands which have seen so much,

experienced so much, felt so much.

Yes, a part is missing, but her hands are entirely whole.

That must touch everything ~ the texture of trees is lingered over.

These are the hands which gather fronds of flowers and leaves as reminders of trips.

The ones which gave my hands

the paintbrush, and the pen.

These are the hands which held open books for me

to wonder over, to dream about, to be lost in.

These are the hands which lavash love on her children, and the world’s children.

They are the hands which hold special children, who tend to them, who love them.

These are the hands I inherited.

The hands with long fingers and strong white nails.

Yes, these are my mother’s hands.

I love you mummy dearest.