Beth Camp Historical Fiction

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

I should save this one for Mother's Day but . . .

My mother thinks her hands are ugly-
knobby & arthritic
each finger points in a different direction.
I remember her hands:
making bread
grading papers
running through my hair.
Her hands share secrets with Frida Kahlo
they write early in the morning like Sylvia Plath.
My daughter's hands are chubby & perfect-
she takes my hand in hers
such a strong little grip.
I hope my daughter's hands become
like my mother's.

I found this poem in my inbox this morning, written by my dear daughter, Rachel.

With all else swirling around us, she found time to write this beautiful affirmation of mothers everywhere.

That's my girl:
Rachel, 1980

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