Even though the years have passed,
I recall my Mama's hands then-
The tiny lines so deeply pressed
into her leathered skin.
Age and time and work had left
their memories behind.
I studied well
the hands so frail
that she cradled within mine.
I thought her old- (although she wasn't)-
But I felt sorry, none the less,
That she had the hands
that held the scars
Of too much time and stress.
Now that I'm no longer young,
I see the years take hold-
Time and pain and memories-
Like clay, my hands they mold.
But time passes in a silent way
that no one understands.
I suddenly looked at myself today-
I have my Mama's hands.
