©ESR 2008

They were covered in dirt

when she was only two,

At five she carried a dead squirrel in the house

everyone screamed and shout

That was the day she learned death was bad.

A few months later her hands cupped her tears

as she moved away from her first friend

They cut out shapes, glued and shined

as they made her little creations at eight.

Years passed and her hands touched everything

An imprint of herself on everything

At sixteen she fought for her morals

later they shook when she told her mom

At eighteen she held her diploma

and wondered what laid ahead

College began her hands led her to her best friend

her hands later gripped a note, of hatred and malice

a “goodbye to you” as another enemy entered

Through the years she put her hands to work

in comfort, fear, anger, and writing…lastly love

her hands have love marks, defensive wounds,

skilled callouses, rough and soft patches

They have protected and cherished, guided and laughed,

prayed and cursed.

They are a part of her

she is part of me

Her hands are mine

until I cease to be.