Mother’s Hands


Hands so very small

Who would think they could do so much?

The scrape on my knee felt her healing touch

The gentle brush as she wiped my tears.


Closing my eyes as I touch her delicate fingers

I remember her holding the brush

Sitting on the floor before her

Bowing my head, she ran it through my tresses.


The thought even relaxes me

My chest breathes in and out

Small fingers smoothing the long hair

Her other, wrapped around the wooden handle.


Opening my eyes, I see her hands

They’re folded on black dress

She looks like she’s sleeping

Her hand is so very cold.


Trying to control my emotions

I do so in vain

Putting my hand on top of hers

They look the same.


Each moment passes by so slow

The time coming to lay her to rest.

Oh, how I want to feel her hand on my hair

And kiss my breaking heart.


Photo from:

Poetry by Susan Reed.


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