I trace Mother’s hands with my own, the soft pads of my
thumbs falling victim to the deep fissures running over
her palms. Her hands are a map of her adventures, a
humble reminder of the love she marked on her children.
The blisters that crown her hand tell a titan’s tale, of how
she held up the sky to watch her daughter run free. The
worn skin of her once fleshy fingers are a testament, to
the countless times she siphoned night terrors from her
daughter’s dreams, smoothing back matted hair and gently
caressing youthful cheeks. The scars on her palms are
remnants of the needle and thread she used to patch the
doubts in her daughter’s mind. Mother’s taut skin almost
bursts at the seams: a reminder of the protection she bought
for the easy price of flesh and blood. And as Mother raises
her head to the night sky of my window, I see the moon
reflected in her eyes. She keeps watch through the night, the
constellations in her irises veiled with sleep. Mother wanes
with the moon, her luster fading with every waking minute.
I never understood the crazy things you do for love, yet I
darkness in this world, dying every day so the sun can live.
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