Purple veins strain against the skin.
Pale, translucent, paper thin.
Skinny fingers clawed in monstrous shapes,
Brown spots from years that she can’t erase.
Now wrinkled and fragile, weak and sore,
So many things she can’t do anymore.
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 to make.
She looks at them and feels the loss,
Living a life bears a very high cost.
These hands that held her children near,
That gently dried their salty tears.
Hands that held her husband’s tight,
That never let go against the fight.
Miraculous hands that protected and soothed.
Hands, they conveyed her every mood.
Hands so strong they could carry the weight,
That would never give up and never forsake.
Those hands that took little but always gave,
Hands that applauded each…
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