Mothers Hands
My own hands unadorned,
Pale in comparison
to the embellishments of your own.
The lines, creases, crevices;
the salon-pampered nails and rings
All sing
The adventures and accomplishments
of your life - both tasteful and tasteless.
The lines on your hands
Like those on a map
Meandering they criss and they cross
- so many stories
and tales of trouble
of woe
It would seem that grief follows
Wherever you go.
Rough working hands
Tell of your true origins;
They belie the extravagance
Which besits your fingers
The ring from husband number one,
The other: husband number two
You threw away husband number three
And number four?
Too soon. Too raw.
There instead sits a barely visible tan line
Of the companionship that was.
And that one elusive ring,
Whose origin you cannot place,
Too many years, too many faces
but only eight fingers
to work the miracles of a mother
in one lifetime.
You worked hard
For all you have,
Turning scrap into silver,
A hole into a house,
Your body into money
To feed a thankless family.
Life sometimes takes me back,
To moments in my past,
My fingers drumming on the car wheel
in impatience
Shouting curses
That I learnt from you.
Sitting.
Waiting.
Memories,
Slowly dissipating
Embellished hands with etched lines
and professionally-done nails and shiny rings
rest,
tapping rhythmically
on the car wheel.
Rebecca .A. Huxley
Copyright © Rebecca Huxley | Year Posted 2017
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