Momma's Hands

For some reason this time of year always makes me think of home, not my home now but where I grew up.  Today I was running hot water over my hands to try to ease the ache they had, and as I stood at the sink looking at my hands, I began to think of my momma's hands.



My fingers are bent and crooked, especially my right  hand.  I was married to a mean, angry man when I was 15.  During his fits of anger and abuse one of the things he would do is break one of my fingers, they've all been broke once or twice, but that was another life time.  All these years later I still feel the pain just like it was yesterday.  As the warm water was running and the ache eased some I remembered how my momma's hands had looked when I was just a child.


Momma worked hard when we were kids on the farm, just like the men did.  She worked the fields side by side with daddy.  I can see her scrubbing cloths on that old washboard, I hope that old washboard is burning in the pits of hell.  Her fingers would bleed in the cold water of winter, but she never complained.  She'd say "hard work never killed nobody".  She'd put what she called a poltus on them at night and do it all over again in the morning.


These tired and bleeding hands were the one's that rocked me gently anytime that I would cry.
They picked me up when I fell down and tried to teach me right.  Momma's hands were my stronghold as I struggled to grow.  Who knew I'd grow and then move on so very far away.
Though knarled and bent from life she never pulled away, she kept her pain and held us tight, how I miss those hands today.  I never knew how momma felt until I had my kids, now the pain of my hands is the pain that must stay hid.  Momma never cried, at least I never saw.  I wonder if she cried alone as I do sometimes late at night, tears that will never see the light.  I understand now why she must have hid her tears, they would've served no purpose for we were only kids.

I wish I could hold her old and fragile hands today and let her know how much I appreciate her strength.  I know she'd never flinch no matter how tight I held on.  If I could hold her hands now I know it would hurt so bad because I I'd never want to let go.  I'd love to tell her, "momma please make the pain go away", because I know she'd hold my hands tightly as she prayed.


Now as I look back on days long gone by, I can see the love in momma's touch in the tenderness of those knarled and bleeding hands.  I'm putting this to paper, through tears, wishing I could once more feel the love of momma's hands.  I wish I could hold her hands, gently as this time I prayed, that God would take her pain away.


Now my kids depend on me and the strength in my two hands.

Angel

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