My Mother's Hands

Hands are the window to the soul.

If you look at my mother's hands
you would probably see,
withered hands with veins of blue
hands of the elderly.

But when I look at my mother's hands,
that's not at all what I see.
I see work, pain and tolerance,
prayer, love and worry.

I see two hands that had to raise
eight children all alone.
I see two hands that made sure
each house we lived in was a home.

I see two hands intertwined
with worry of what to do,
each time my father disappeared
for a month or two.

I see two hands that did not hold
any monetary things.
I see two hands that would iron all day
so we looked neat and clean.

I see two hands that would not eat
unless the children were full.
I see two hands that never struck
another living soul.

I see two hands, oh so proud,
never reaching for charity.
Think of her next time you see
hands of the elderly.