I remember her hands

 I remember my small hand in hers and the way she squeezed it for no reason. I remember her holding my hand as we crossed the street and only letting go when I was safe. I remember her holding my hand when I got sick, fighting back her tears, and assuring me everything would be all right. I remember her hand guiding the pencil as she taught me how to write. I remember her hand turning the pages of every book she read and brushing away my hair to kiss me on my forehead and say goodnight. I remember my mother's hands and the love she put into everything she did for me. I remember her in her garden, how she loved to get her hands dirty, and the smell of lotion, as she said she had to stay young. But she didn't stay young, and her hands, once milky white, became weathered, showing the times of her life, times as a teacher, and all the precious times her hands showed me the way. I remember Mom. I remember your soft hands gently holding my cheeks and telling me everything would be ok as you blew me a kiss and said goodbye.

Happy Mother's Day in Heaven, Mom.

Mike 2024