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