A Mother's Changed Hand

Stella Sanles

September 2023

The hand that holds mine

Is large and pale

Soft with 

Short nails that remain

Unpainted.

They hold the butcher's knife

Fold dumpling skin

And peel oranges.

Splashing water

On freckled cheeks and

Running mousse

Through wavy black hair.

Out hands meet.

We cross the street

And walk to school

Every morning

Together.

I don't see them again

Until late evening.

Hands that were once small

And lived on

The other side of the globe.

Still peeling oranges

But not as frequently.

With a father

Across the sea

Working to afford

A life in America.

Gripping pencils and paper

Running over characters

I don't understand.

Painting a grandmother's hand

A color I don't know.

In a crowded apartment

I've never seen.

In a busy country

I've never visited.

Those hands are now

The same size

As mine.

Aged and weathered

Tanned from the sun.

Hardworking as ever

Tending to a garden

And me.

Our hands are apart

When we cross the street.

But now yours 

Take my arm.

My elbow bends

In acceptance

And we walk together

Like we did when 

Our hands were different.

You still peel my oranges.