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Remembering mother on her day

Editor, Index-Tribune: 

Attached is a poem I wrote upon my mother's death many years ago. Perhaps you could print it in honor of Mother's Day.

 

My Mother's Hands

 

Soft, small hands dipped in henna.

Skin, like dried rose petals,

fragile as the membrane of an eggshell.

 

Palms pumiced smooth

by the stones of toil and caring.

Veins and wrinkles recording all the years

of doing and praying.

Blunt-cut nails, round and flat.

Ridged nails, thin as tissue paper, never manicured.

 

Cooking, cleaning, and medicating hands.

Comforting hands that dried many a tear.

Gentle hands that braided hair,

mended, embroidered and picked flowers.

 

Strong hands that chopped wood,

wrung chicken necks, plucked feathers,

but, oh ... that was so long ago.

 

Now they lay across your breast,

no longer fluttering,

no longer picking imaginary lint off your quilt,     

no longer reaching out to touch a transparent face

that floats above your bed.

 

The silver rosary lies still in your hands,

its beads no longer slipping through your fingers.

Soon the dried petals of your skin will crumble,

turn into delicate, sweet smelling dust.

 

Small, motionless hands, dipped in henna,

soon to be one with the soft, brown earth.

Helen Rowntree

Sonoma