Her Hands

They soothed my brow, curled my hair and filled my lunchbox. My feet on cold linoleum, they made eggs with hard edges.

They did laundry in a tub that would freeze on the line and grew corn and beans to fill our hungry mouths. 

 They sewed midnight dresses for parties and dances, simple creations held with loving stitches.

They could turn into fists, blood and trust running out. Whose hands had soothed and then weaponed against her? 

At the end of her life when words had no meaning, we spoke in our tactile way, as I massaged her worn hands with creams and painted her nails the color of love. 

Emily Florence

 

 

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