My mother has the softest hands,
I can still remember her gentle caresses
before hard labour carved its marks
on her fingertips, like a sharp reminder
of her existence, my existence,
our palms meeting to carry the flowing lifeline.
Your fists dwarf mine in comparison,
the length of your hands wrap around mine
to draw me home, entwining around my
lifeline more and more each day.
I am so young, I have the soft palms
and strong grasps of a toddler who is
still afraid of the hard tarmac beneath.
Your hands feel like safety but also
infinite darkness, and my mother is the
beacon lighting my way.