Poetry Unraveled

My Mother's Hands

Each passing day I find myself staring at my mom's hands.
Pondering on the reasoning behind my fascination.
So many reasons.
There is a story behind everybody's hands...they are much like tree rings in some aspects.
From the way the blanket of flesh wraps around the bones, comforting them in a certain fashion.
The creases that are drawn out in different lengths and patterns.
I've always found beauty in a person's hands.
My mom's specifically.
The laundry list of obstacles she has overcome show in every callus..every hard patch.
She is a Warrior.
She is a Super Hero
Not in the way that is portrayed in action books...not the endless lineup of characters that Stan Lee has depicted in his comics as heroines.
It's in a more complicated sense.
The hurdles she has cleared growing up with absent parents that filled her life with objects money could buy but never the affection and attention she craved.
Climbing up the ladder to the level that holds pain, sorrow and years of demons that tore away at her physical and mental walls. Much like Superman she deflected the bullets and kept that self stabilized stronghold.
My mom will never know how amazing she is.
How she touches one person's life with a single word of inspiration.
Her hands show the wrath of the world and while she deems them weak...I deem them invincible and incredible.
Her hands are the pages to her life's book.
She calls them weathered.
I call them....tough as hide.
She calls them aged.
I simply say, doesn't wine get better with time?
Living life as a single mother of two children after losing her husband to a terminal battle?
How much more strength do you honestly expect to witness.
I've befallen to the honor that is, watching my mom fight each day and knowing that I can still place even a simplistic stroke of happiness in her heart.
Her hands are earned by hardwork, battling her entire life against hell hounds of stress, the worst of human kind, being a guardian angel to two innocent beings and raising them to develop into individual minds.
Her hands are the stars.
Her hands are the crescent shaped moon in the luminescent sky.
Her hands are the sun rays peeking through the slated blinds hung up on the face of the window.
Her hands are that freshly rain kissed sodden earth.
Her hands are everything.
They are her and she...them.
She is my idol, my friend, my heart, my mom.