Her motherly hands had resilient veins,
burrowing uncharted paths
to fingers that nourished
and nails that gently caressed.
As a child, I used to caress those hands,
with fascinated focus on the unyielding resolve
of every nail.
They were simple but always natural –
their imperfect beauty unadorned by polish,
filed to a smooth finish,
and rarely buffed to a shine.
Even now, I can still sense the strength
and endurance of those long nails
between my own fingertips,
decades after her resting hands
were lowered to the cold, hard ground.
© 2020 HSE
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