My Mother's Hands

Sometimes I look down at my hands

Dirt caked nails and darkened cracks

Bones and veins visible beneath tanned skin

And I am reminded of my mother

Oh, how she hated her hands!

Their lack of femininity

Their callouses

Their wearing of age

Oh, how I loved those hands!

Rough to the touch

Full of tenderness

She could not erase the signs of labor

With manicures and acrylics

Her efforts were in vain

For the garden would beckon

Or a fence would need mending

I should have told her

That her hands were one of her best qualities

She never needed to be ashamed

Those other ladies with their doughy hands

Should have envied her

I look at my hands and I know

I am my mother’s daughter

But instead I display my hands with pride

My hands create, repair, and comfort

My hands make this world a better place

I earned every callous and crack

I only wish she was here to see

Her hands on me

I wonder if she would be proud

Of the woman I am now