Growth

these hands…

In my mind’s-eye, I’m still 22… full of bubbling life & eagerly looking forward into infinite possibilities. But I can’t escape my hands… I see them every day & they speak volumes. They are not the hands of a 22-year-old. But one day, as I stood in front of a sunlight-drenched window, I saw my hands in a very new light.

These hands have diced eggs & carried Christmas Trees,
They have dried tears & made mudpies…
Been nibbled by a newborn & held tight for support.

These hands have typed novels & written love notes,
They have sewn clothes & repaired broken toys…
Changed a flat tire & dried dishes.

These hands have braided hair & filed paperwork,
They have signed autographs & cooked Thanksgiving dinner…
Driven for hours & painted a rocking chair.

These hands have put on makeup & picked cotton,
They have clapped for performances & cupped a tiny face…
Made sand castles & fired guns.

These hands have felt for fever & poured champagne,
They have held a book to be read & smooshed play-doh…
Waved goodbye & signed “I Love You.”

These hands have been scarred & pampered,
They have lit candles & shucked corn…
Wound a music box & photographed a sunset.

These hands have made a bed & polished a bike,
They have poured medicine & knitted a sweater…
Planted flowers & served dinner.

These hands have built sets & fed a snake,
They have pushed a swing & iced cookies…
Painted a picture & been held during a waltz.

These hands have changed diapers & stiched a pillow,
They have held tight to reigns & straightened a satin sash…
Played ‘airplane’ & painted nails bubble-gum pink.

These hands have applied band-aids & flipped pancakes,
They have held tiny teacups & gathered flowers…
Thrown snowballs & given a bath.

What I am called (or not) doesn’t matter in the least…
These are a Mother’s hands.

The realm of the Nurturer.

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