Homage to an aging pair of hands

Holding my dying mother’s hand (November 2019)

Like a flower
wilting in plain sight
my hands have begun to spoil.

Long ago, a baby lying on the grass
I wiggled my hands up in the air,
mesmerized by their dance.

Unaware those puppets were mine
Unaware I set them in motion.

With them I would carve my destiny.

The same hands then
The same hands now

Thick, deforming knuckles
dry, stained skin
swelling joints
veins like rivers about to overflow their banks
Exposed roots of an old oak tree
Like my mother’s hands on her dying bed

Again I stare at them in disbelief
Are they really mine?
Not long ago I had pride in my beautiful hands

Repeat after me, “This aging body is mine”
Feel the wave of compassion
It begins at the roots
and flows through the veins
a liquid, warm gratitude
a mantra