Purple veins strain against the skin.
Pale, translucent, paper thin.
Skinny fingers clawed in monstrous shapes,
Brown spots from years she could never erase.
Now wrinkled and weak, fragile and sore,
So many things she couldn’t do any more.
Some days she feels she’s been betrayed,
By the cruelty of her advancing age.
She rubs her hands to ease the ache,
And recalls the life they helped her make.
She looks at them and feels the loss,
Living a life bares a high cost.
These hands that held her children near,
That gently dried their salty tears.
Hands that held her husband tight.
The hands that never gave up the fight.
Miraculous hands that protected and soothed.
Hands that conveyed her every mood.
Hands so strong they could carry the weight,
That would never give up and never forsake.
The hands that took little but always gave,
Hands that applauded every achievement made.
Those soft, sweet hands that gently cared,
For those sick or lost in dark despair.
Hands that fussed and fumbled that day
Her husband gave their daughter away.
Those hands holding tight, as he slowly died,
Caressing his brow as she stood by his side.
Hands that rocked her grandson to sleep,
That gladly took over when others grew weak.
Hands that once held everyone she loved,
And praying for strength to our God above.
Hands that were always so willing to give,
Hands that reveal a life fully lived.
Small, feeble hands, now empty and cold,
These hands that each day will keep growing old.
These hands she now tends to hide away,
These hands that at times make her feel ashamed.
Grotesque and useless in her eyes,
They rest in her lap as she quietly cries.
But I see the hands of a hero so true,
A woman that survived what this life put her through.
A woman whose heart still shimmers like gold,
With the hands of a warrior that made her mark on this world.