are not beautiful hands.
They are ordinary hands.
The fingernails are not long,
not pointed,
or cultured.
Manicured nails get in the way
When there's washing
or ironing to do.
The skin is a bit rough,
the lines are deeply grooved.
Scanning the lines of her palms,
the past could be clearly seen
the Monday washes,
the darning,
the scrubbing.
Jewels don't adorn
my mother's hands.
A plain wedding band
circles the third finger,
left hand.
For nearly three decades,
the ring has never been removed.
It's a symbol now:
a pledge never broken.
Her hands
are what I remember most.
My mother's hands
are kitchen hands.
It is the Grand Central Station
of my parent's home.
She sets up the ironing board,
while the talk goes on.
Or concocts hot cocoa
in winter.
Or her own mixture
of grap juice
and orange slices,
on hot summer days.
and your thoughts stumble
on a thousand pictures
of your mother's hands.
The hands
that untied the knotted shoestrings,
buttoned the winter coat,
tweaked the ear,
wrote the notes
when you were out of school.
The hands
that gave your sister
her first permanent,
wiped your nose
with a handkerchief
that smelled of lilac.
Later the hands
ironed your white shirt
the night of the big date,
found the cuff links
that were always lost,
straightened the tie.
Tomorrow is Mother's Day.
Those hands will set the table,
cook a dinner,
that becomes a masterpiece,
under her guidance.
Afterward,
she'll open the gifts,
her hands fumbling.
She'll be embarrassed.
Mother's always are.
She still blushes,
sometimes even at her age.
And to cover it all,
she'll shoo everyone out of the kitchen
in spite of the protests.
Her hands,
will become busy again.
Her hands,
just ordinary kitchen hands.