Working Hands

I look at my hands often. They are beautiful.

Everyone says I have my mother’s hands.

Mom was always gentlest with me.

When I’d let the tears pour she’d say,

“Tears will make you grow like water to a flower”.

She’d hold my tear-streaked face in her hands until I stopped crying,

and I have never forgotten that feeling.

I’m all grown up now.

My flowers are overwatered,

but I think they have bloomed beautifully.

At night, they stand and stretch towards the moon.

They reach up to you.

Time has passed,

and I’ve had a few places to live,

but home will always be where you are.

When I’m homesick,

I look down at my hands that resemble your own.

I feel pride.

I know my flowers are strong because the roots run deep.

I look down at my hands and I see you.

I smile as I trace the pathways of my veins back to my origins.

My hands they take me home to you.

My skin is no longer porcelain and smooth.

They are tanned and textured, scarred with tiny imperfections –

working hands.

Mom would be displeased.

But still, they are the same hands you once held in your own

and said, “I don’t want your hands to ever look like mine”.

I inspected yours closely to understand what you meant,

and the contrast to my own was shocking.

Calloused, browned by the sun, and liver-spotted with

fragile blue and green veins protruding under paper-thin skin.

Deformed by the rheumatism as your body began to betray you,

the joints swelled and the fingers twisted.

You thought your hands were ugly

and you were ashamed,

because they were

working hands.

In those hands,

you saw a lifetime of hardship,

a high school education,

a runaway,

an immigrant,

poverty.

You saw empty hands that had nothing to leave behind for your children,

and that was so painful for you.

In those hands,

I saw sacrifice,

I saw a source of unconditional love,

and sometimes, a stern reminder to teach me right from wrong.

I saw a mother who would do anything for her children.

I saw a woman who survived despite so many odds against her.

They were a symbol of perseverance,

of a life lived hard,

but a life lived fully.

They were hands I could hold to steady myself.

They were hands that wiped away tears

and held my tear-streaked face until I felt safe.

I held them tighter.

I loved those hands.

Those hands made a home.

I’m all grown up now.

My flowers are overwatered,

but I know they have bloomed beautifully.

At night, they still stand and stretch towards the moon.

They still reach up to you.

Time has passed,

and I’ve had quite a few places to live.

Lately, when the homesickness creeps in,

I look down at my hands that resemble your own,

and I think to myself that

home will always be where I am,

because I have your hands.

The homesickness fades.

I know my flowers are strong because the roots run deep.

I look down at my hands and I see you.

I smile as I trace the pathways of my veins back to my origins.

My hands still take me home to you,

but now I understand

that my hands they also take me home to myself.

I can make a home wherever I am.

I feel at home again.