The Warmest Hand: My Mother’s Touch on My Forehead
A quiet memory of comfort, love, and everything she never had to say out loud
When I was small and sick in bed,
she'd sit beside me, stroke my head.
No words, no fuss, just warmth so near—
her palm, a shield from pain and fear.
She never asked if I was brave,
just smoothed my hair, and I behaved.
Her touch could hush a restless night,
a whisper made of love and light.
Years passed. I grew, and life got loud.
But when the world became a cloud,
I’d close my eyes and feel her hand—
soft as prayer, firm as sand.
She doesn’t need to say a thing.
Her fingers hold what voices bring:
a silent strength, a sacred thread—
the warmest hand upon my head.
Message:
Love doesn’t always speak. Sometimes, it simply rests gently on your forehead, reminding you that you’re safe, seen, and never alone.
About the Creator
Fazal Hadi
Hello, I’m Fazal Hadi, a motivational storyteller who writes honest, human stories that inspire growth, hope, and inner strength.
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Comments (1)
So true.💕