Her Hands By Faria

 Her Hands
written by Faria – 28 August 2015
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Her hands resemble the most picture perfect image of what a women hands should be, to me personally. call me biased call me selective.

Her hands are always cold, and i wish i could always warm them.
They’re fragile and petite, delicate..soft, and pale, but pale on the scale of skin tones where pale is the fairest shade, with nails perfectly trimmed, and nail varnish called marshmallow coated to perfection with no bumps, and a smooth touch.
I’ve watched her hands carry sorrow till it dropped, for there’s only so much one can carry till gravity takes its toll. I’ve watched her hands create music from misery, using nothing but her petite fingers and an imaginary tapestry. those same hands fed me, bred me, carried me when i was tired, held me tight when i was scared, put sunblock on my nose, and brushed and combed my curly hair, without hurting me. for only her hands know how to handle me.
Those hands fed me fruits and cheese, and held my hand when i crossed the street…they waved goodbye when i got dropped off at school, and they wrote down words that i one day will pass on to my own daughter.
These hands are the hands of my own mother.
Her hands have endured far more than what they should. I tell you all, these hands are a miracle.
They keep clean and nicely trimmed, even when they’ve been dealing with dirt and unfair men, for my mother an agriculture, worked day and night in the fields…yet never did I ever, see her nails lose they’re shine, and never did she ever forget to intertwine her hands in mine, before i went to bed.
Even when she drove and I was sitting beside her, she made it a point to grasp my hand tighter, before she dropped me off and parted in her own direction. She’d stroke my back to help me fall asleep, and run her fingers through my hair till she fell asleep.
Her hands…her hands, they smell like the perfume one I can forever consume, because as soon as I inhale, I am safe and content.
It’s wondrous how much I can say about her hands
Her hands, her hands, have been through too much, yet she holds herself high and with them brushes it off. Her hands have wiped her tears as soon as she heard my footsteps approach her doorstep, never allowing me to see her breakdown, she’d use her tears to wash her face, replace the sadness with a smile, to make me feel like everything’s okay.
Her hands, as soft as the skin on her cheek.
They have endured struggles no man will speak.
With those same hands, she said ‘I do’ and 15 years down the line, it was just me and you, in our flat, that with her hands, she got on her own, and with those hands, she built us a home.
With those hands, she ignored the stares, the glares from men, when she showed up on her own to wherever she had to be, living in an Arab country, men look abruptly…especially at a women with her beauty, I always use to worry.
Her hands have shaken hands of dreamers, and made them believers for she has the ability to touch others simply with her hands. Her hands don’t only create life in soil, but paint and write and heal others. Her hands never stop moving, or learning. She is now in her 50’s and she’s still growing up to be, everything she wished to be.
A single mother was not planned, but she created a default plan, and look at her now, after this journey she’s been through, her hands are still looking brand new.
My hands…my hands will never look like hers. My skin color differs, and my nails are coarse, un-lady like, with scars and scabs…My mothers hands could never look that bad.
One day my mother, and by one day I mean now, I will attempt to give to you what you gave to me, and altogether us three, your children.
I want my hands to hold your head close to my heart, as you listen to my heartbeat, because as long as its beating I will be right by your side, to serve you and hold you high…and when your hands get weaker, mine will support them, and when your hands get tired…mine will hold them.

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