My mother’s hands

Worn. By the time I knew her and them, brought into this world through her womb and love, they were worn. My mother’s hands. Nails never polished. Sometimes covered with grime. Other times with skin shriveled by dish washing or laundry. Never clenched, even when angry. Constantly closed in prayer. Oh, how she prayed. Often they touched my head as she walked by. A gentle touch that sometimes startled. Conveying me back from wherever books had transported me. Volumes she spoke with her loving touch, without saying a single word. My mother’s hands.

Writing 201: Fingers

Today’s prompt: Fingers. Today’s form: prose poetry. Today’s device: assonance (Not present here. Not even remotely. :-))


10 thoughts on “My mother’s hands

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s