A reel of incomplete memories flash across my thoughts,
The one clip that stays consistent are your reaching hands,
I try so hard, but I cannot remember your face,
Just those hands,
Washing my hair as I fight and believe that the water is killing me,
Popping my hand and shaking a finger at me when I misbehaved,
Holding my hand while we took the bus to pop up at Ian's school when he was in trouble,
Helping me bob for apples,
Folded as you kneeled beside me to help us say our prayers at night,
Those hands
Mothering, nuturing, disciplining, molding, comforting, praying, washing, cooking,
Those beautiful hands.
If I saw a picture I may never remember your face,
But when I am in need of your comfort all I see are
Those reaching hands.
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