My Mother's Hand

March 14, 2017
By ,
When I was little all I wanted
Was to hold
My Mother's Hand.
Yet every time I tried
Little needles stung my fingers.
Every attempt ending in painful bumps.
Little trickles of crimson color.
Wet cheeks and runny noses.

Being so young
I refused to give up
Still holding onto that childish

For decades I waited
Hoping the pieces would mold
To be an exact fit.
Myself being the only causality
To my fatal attempts.
The more I failed an odd clarity came
I was the problem.
The reason things didn't make sense.
It had to be me
That made the pieces
Never fit.

That scar hung around me for years
Like a golden medal of my shame
Pushing and pushing
Its way to my chest.
As I got older I realized
I wasn't for the blame.
The person who lingered in my mind
Held the poison to my heart.
So I dropped the anchor
Tied like a noose around my neck.
And went to search again
For My Mother's Hand.

The moment came a lot later.
When I had given up hope.
Thrown in the towel and waited
As the days inched by
Each molding into each other
Like spilled paint
Turning every single picture
Into a dull color.

Not a speck of our blood
Would read the same details.
Yet she understood me
In a way no other could.
Not a strand of our DNA
Will ever come to a unique match.
But she wipes away my tears
As if she experienced the very first drop.
Not a single feature will look the same
Yet she speaks as if we have been connected
Since the day my eyes first met the world
Seventeen years ago.

No matter the difference
The never ending dissimilarities
She keeps her arms wrapped close
As if to keep the wind for taking her child away.
And the first time she took my hand
Fear crept in my eyes
For we seem so oddly made
Yet the whole world lit up
As our fingers curled together for warmth.
Problems slipping away through the cracks
As if they had never existed at all.
It was a celebration
For Mother and Daughter
Were finally united at last.

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