Time is told on the hands of a womanA woman’s hands…
Map the days of her life
hidden in the intricate lines of veins and capillaries
there, is a story of how she spent her time.
My aunt was a seamstress, a lab technician, a wife, a mother
My grandmother was a nurse, a day care worker, and a wife
Another aunt stayed home, watched soap operas, and cooked.
My friend taught math and made biryani
I know another lady who folds her hands to listen
My granddaughter holds snakes
My cousin lobbies for AFL CIO
and my mother
Well, she counseled alcoholics and their families, painted her nails sapphire red polish, wrote recommendations, helped people live…
Their stories are told in their grasps
Their real age and their real struggles embed and impress their skin
Pulling, pushing, grasping, fighting, stretching, gathering, directing, communicating, structuring, building, stitching, hurting…
constantly functioning… constantly manipulating multiple tasks… over time.
Age has its way to stiffen, twist, swell, burn, break, and bruise them
Yet, they ceaselessly testify to the years and
press the pages of time
Skin loosening, veins popping — living oozing trails of twists and turns, creating patterns of blood streams circulating from heart to palm to fingers to hand… continuously.
Until they are folded
To close the pages of her life.
Then traces of mothering remembered mingle within the pleats of another mothering hand.
iamartofmothering 