My Mother's Hands

my mother’s hands

appear one afternoon as i peel potatoes for supper
the twist of wrist, a cupping of the palm
veins of garden soil in her thumb cracks
traces along the cuticle

sometimes they wear the stain of fall beets
peeled after boiling on the wood stove
the blunt fingernails, the memory of chalk dust
the strength of holding, of letting go

one saturday, her hands deep in wash water
the tongue of sheets passed through the wringer
with a gasp of air I looked up to see
her fingers hand arm

following the cloth into the rollers
until she sprung their grip and cried
get your father and with a hollow dark
in my chest i ran to the barn calling

now as her hands emerge from mine
i remember the day when i first knew
that she too was a passing force
a warm wind blowing outside my window


Rebecca Luce-Kapler