Little Hands

May 20, 2009
They once were little hands
Reaching for something

But time flew by
And then they changed

No longer small
Tiny and soft now were

They no longer reached for mother
Or even another hand to hold

They stretched for the truth
The necessity of being

Who was this child?
Who was I?

My hands reflect me
An innocence not really gone

I reach so often for a sense of being,
A sense of who I truly am

The necessities no longer comfort
The world isn’t fairy tales and

There is so much I didn’t hold as a child
So much I didn’t know

Sorrow and pain
The ache of war, the joy of

There is so much I hold now
Things I never had before

Independence, responsibilities
Arguments and the fear of a

I look down at my hands
Are they really the same?

Did these hands hold Barbie
And paint beautiful

Did these hands really change?
Have I changed?

I no longer hold dolls and play
Silly games of adventure and

My hands no longer play.
They write.

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