by Maggie Pittman
Her hands held me gently from the day I took my first breath.
Her hands helped to guide me as I took my first step.
Her hands are now twisting with age and years of work.
Her hands now need my gentle touch to rub away the hurt.
Her hands are more beautiful than anything can be.
Her hands are the reason I am me.
These are actually my hands, but this poem has given me the idea to trace my mother’s hands,
because she won’t always be here.