The mother held her newborn boy's hand
so breakable, so fragile, so new,
and in the deepest curve of his palm,
handed him life, whispering, "Just for you."

He could use his hands for anything possible,
use his life for what it's worth.
She treasured his palm, for he knew not
of how to keep his gift of birth.

She tenderly kissed his palm each night,
knowing life was jeopardized while in his hand.
That it can easily be gone with the wind,
sifting through his fingers like sand.

Forever she holds his palm close
to keep his life between their hands,
for she knows the feeling of loss,
her finger bears a now partner less wedding band.

As her boy grows older over time,
and as his clock still ticks away,
he one day feels the impulse of one tick,
and realizes he has more he can't waste.

He sets out to fill every tick with life,
to have each one surge with power and warmth.
He signs his name on the dotted line,
and pulls on his war uniform.

He now uses his own strong hands
to secure the grips of others.
His palm wraps around human lives
holding their souls beneath their fingers.

Until one day, he is fighting for lives, including his,
when his had is blown off by an explosion.
He screams in pain and pure agony
until his throat's protest quiets him.

His hand is lost in his courageous battle,
everything he's ever known is gone.
However, his life has not disappeared.
It is truly held in the spirit of his mom.

He rips through the battlefield of hurt,
his feet pounding on the earth below.
The pounding is the only sound filling his ears.
The pain is something he no longer knows.

He had used his hand to hold others
to make sure their lives were safe.
He gently curled their fingers to their palms,
so that life will be the last to break.