not once have i resisted their gentle invitation,
their will to reconnect, mend, grab, hold, settle,
it has to be a motherly, knuckly, clunky hand,
that shimmers its weight in silver and it's moisturized,
quivering and warm.
my hands used to be warm and calloused,
now they are cold and soft,
inviting the overwhelming sensation that i too,
can follow the female leads of this family,
and foster love of my own,
four generations of teachers, supporting students,
four generations of unconformance, learning to mend on the road,
four generations, maybe more, of women holding their families together in the only way they could learn.
i see my hands and i see my future,
they will tremble, they will have scars and scabs,
they'll bear my mothers rings,
they'll hold my childrens' hands.