March 24th, my mom’s birthday. She’s been gone many years now. I’m not like she was in most ways; but, when I look at my hands, I see our connection.
a tissue folded between them,
clawing, releasing,
a small, steady ritual.
I see her still in memory,
seated straight as if for company,
hair and nails kept,
clothes and jewelry
carefully put together,
always meeting my father’s expectation
long after the last remark
he ever made.
Her laundry required
a careful turning out of pockets
or wisps of tissue would appear,
transparent as breath,
refusing to let go.
I would lift them free,
return each garment
to its place in the drawers,
in the small room
where her laughter last lived.
It was my honor.
Her hands must have once
been young and unburdened,
before age settled in the joints,
before time marked the skin.
The memory fades
across years spent balancing
loss with life.
My hands reflect hers now,
the ritual passed on
from mother to daughter.
Perhaps the tissue
is our hands’ quiet anchor,
something soft to hold
when thoughts drift
and memory loosens its grip.
I check my pockets.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Read 3 times
Written on 2026-03-24 at 02:34
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Our Hands
Her hands rest in her lap,a tissue folded between them,
clawing, releasing,
a small, steady ritual.
I see her still in memory,
seated straight as if for company,
hair and nails kept,
clothes and jewelry
carefully put together,
always meeting my father’s expectation
long after the last remark
he ever made.
Her laundry required
a careful turning out of pockets
or wisps of tissue would appear,
transparent as breath,
refusing to let go.
I would lift them free,
return each garment
to its place in the drawers,
in the small room
where her laughter last lived.
It was my honor.
Her hands must have once
been young and unburdened,
before age settled in the joints,
before time marked the skin.
The memory fades
across years spent balancing
loss with life.
My hands reflect hers now,
the ritual passed on
from mother to daughter.
Perhaps the tissue
is our hands’ quiet anchor,
something soft to hold
when thoughts drift
and memory loosens its grip.
I check my pockets.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Read 3 times
Written on 2026-03-24 at 02:34
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Clara Mae Gregory |
