My Mother's Hands

A poem about age and experience

My mother’s hands
are the same size as mine;
Though hers are padded, and wrinkled, and lined.

One day she took my hand in hers
asked, “Why your hands so small? ”
“They’re the same size smallness, ” I replied
Putting my hand up to hers.
“See? ”
I triumphed.
“Oh.”
She conceded.

Hands separated, but I looked on
At my mother’s hands,
the same size as mine,
but hers are padded, and wrinkled and lined.

My hands are coffee with much cream
hers are dark oak wood:
Rough and soft and warmed by life experience
While mine are smooth and bony and cool from puerility.

I took my mother’s hand
That’s the same size as mine
Hers that is meaty and rumpled and plied
And held it in my hand
That is scrawny and unworn
And fortified
By my mother’s hand held in mine.