It has been said that I have my mother’s hands

My fingers

Just the right length

Not too long like pencils or pens.

Not too short like baby carrots or puppies

Just long enough to reach out and catch you

Whether you’re in trouble or need the comfort

My fingers

Just the right thickness

Not too slender like sticks or twigs

Not too chubby like sausages or hotdogs

Just thick enough to hold onto you

Whether you need the support or require the restraint

My fingers

Not straight by any means necessary

Some point North while others are facing Southeast

Some curve like bows

Some bump like backroads only few know about

But like any hands they tell a story

Through the scars and blemishes

The imperfections and disfigurements

A story is written into the creases

In the palms and knuckles