MY MOTHER'S HANDS
My mother always told me that you can tell a woman's age by her hands
But what she did not mention is that our hands tell a story
My mother's hands have melted shea butter into my skin
Almost as if she saw the potential in her masterpiece
Her hands have washed the recess from our shirts when all we had was each other
Her hands have cooked, cleaned and wiped the sweat from her face in frustration
Of raising children by a man that would never face his past
Her hands have blessed the heads of women
and held secrets even their husbands don't know
Her hands have reprimanded me and tucked me in at night
Never letting me know how strong she would have to be
Those hands have pulled me from fights
Attempted to guide me to what's right
And if I ever wanted to do anything wrong,
I would think of those hands covering your face in disappointment
My mother's hands have hammered prayers on the walls of her salon
Hoping that at the end of the day she would be able to feed her children
Her hands have fixed the last tie her son will ever wear
with the hope that he will be pleased with her choices
But it's her eyes,
Like something is missing
That glisten stopped shimmering
The song in her eyes has turned into fatal piano music
And I can't help but to wish that I was the pianist
I wish that I had a car because then the distance in your eyes wouldn't seem so far
I wish that I was back in your womb so that I could fill
that hole in your heart with all of my love
I wish that I could be in your head so I could fight off every doubt you've ever had
I wish that I could be you
For every time that you have sacrificed anything for me
And just know that if your hands ever stop working like they used to,
I will melt shea butter into your skin
Because our bodies are temples, but you are a monument
Frozen in history as the flyest woman I’ve ever met
And if the day comes that I call your name and you don't answer,
Save me a place next to you because we've never been that far apart
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