by Felicia Aguilar
I studied the map of her hand,
a forest of 102 tendrils
my small hand enclosed in hers -
Wisened hands that held me as a baby,
hands that wiped tears away
from skinned knees and broken hearts,
hands that held mine tightly
as we walked down Davis St to the bus stop
as cars sped past us in a fury,
hands that cooked meals, fed me, gave me strength,
hands that held the egg as she prayed
over me and wiped away the evil eyes,
hands that were lifelines and that
never wavered in their faith
Even at the end
as she clasped them together
and prayed out to Padre Dios and asked
por que por que por que -
why was this happening to her?
Hands that ran through her silver hair
As if to wave all of the pain away.
If only my hands were as strong
to carry the weight of our world
to carry the weight
of losing her.
Posted on 12/16/2023
Copyright © 2024 Felicia Aguilar
|Member Comments on this Poem
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 12/16/23 at 05:18 PM
Quite moving! Thanks for sharing.
|Posted by Richard Vince on 12/20/23 at 12:39 AM
Very moving. I hope you're doing OK.
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 12/26/23 at 06:56 PM
A beautiful tribute to your mother. If the title is her age, how incredible to live that long and for you to have her that long. Good memories, I hope, will sustain you.