Author: Sylvia Ann Robles-Garcia
I regret not ever taking the time to write something like this for my mom when she was able to appreciate and know how much she is loved. She is existing, but only lives in that moment. She no longer remembers that it’s even going to be Mother’s Day on Sunday. As we sat out on the back porch tonight, I asked her if she would like to be young again, and her reply was, “Well, yes, but that’s not possible.”
These hands once washed diapers a many,
These hands once dried tears of plenty.
These hands used to keep us warm all winter long,
These hands used to clap to a favorite song.
These hands once were used to keep us all fed,
These hands used to make up our bed.
These hands always made sure we got to school,
These hands taught us about the Golden Rule.
These hands went to battle for each of our souls,
These hands folded in prayer each night and unknown.
These hands have given way to many wrinkles,
And these hands no longer feel the tingle.
These hands no longer feel use,
These hands even appear tired and bruised.
These hands are a story of her life,
These hands were a blessing as a mother and a wife.
These hands are ninety-nine years old,
These hands tell a story, a story of old.
These hands may be shaky, wrinkled, and dry,
But Mom, I will miss them when I have to say goodbye.
FindJoy 