My mama's hands weren't smooth,

when I think back upon them, now.

When she would stroke my head

her hands felt rough upon my brow.

For they were strong and calloused

from her years of honest toil

In our greenhouse, shifting flowerpots

and digging in the soil.

But they were always gentle

with the strays I gathered there,

And clever, when she made me

big rag dolls and teddy bears.

At rest, she'd have a book in hand

and read aloud each night,

And take our love of reading

to the very highest heights.

I thought her hands were homely

in the ignorance of youth,

And it some years maturing

'till I recognized the truth.

For she taught us, by example,

there's no shame in honest work,

And no matter what the task was

she was never known to shirk.

I'd give a lot, today,

to hold her rough hand for a while.

If it could be, I know

that it would make my mama smile,

For fate plays funny tricks on us

and now, I understand,

For every time I raise my arms

I see my mama's hands,

Mama's Hands by Betty Cessna, February, 2001

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