My mother's hands are large and strong

With long, bony fingers

But they are impossibly gentle and soft

As they caress the side of my face.

Her many rings glisten on her fingers;

They are cold against my skin.

Lines are etched into her palms,

Tendons shift right under the skin,

Blue veins are traceable beneath the surface.

Age hasn't touched anywhere but her hands

And it didn't linger there long.

Her long, squared off fingernails

That shimmer like pearls

Click on the table when she thinks

And click faster when she's typing.

They used to separate and flip the pages

Of the books she read to me before bed

Until I picked them up

And started to read to her.

Many things about her stick out to me

But I know I will always remember

Her hands...

And how they shaped me into

The person I am today.