My mother’s hands, the same ones that held my own, when I was learning to walk, were not fast enough to catch me when I decided that I was going to run
I was precocious and believed I knew it all, that somehow I had outgrown her, my very first friend, and that I was invincible; I could not fail.
She was there as I turned every corner, though I pretended she did not exist. Despite my arrogance, I still landed into her arms with every fall, desperate for the cure of her doting kiss.
Nursed back to health, I chose to forget her loving care and was once again dedicated to my own detriment. In a rush to grow up, I experimented with every poison, convinced that it was surely what would help me mature.
In my teenage haste, I failed to observe my mother’s hands folded in prayer, and wondered instead when she would distance herself from my despair. In reality, she was asking God to help repair the lost little lamb that took too many wrong turns yet fancied himself a man.
Anyone else would break if subjected to my torment, my behaviour worsening by the hour with each new cry for help.
But not my mother… she possessed immeasurable strength, and managed to withstand each atrocity that I unleashed.
Many would have given up or in, unable to continue fighting a losing war. This was when her hands grew tired and ached with pain, weathered from my stubborn storms.
Sunny days surrounded by sycophants as I rejected the unconditional love at home, turned quickly cold as my false pride held my head up to deny the consistent truth.
My lowest moments arrived amidst the lost souls that also sailed through dire straits; they provided me with clarity, shaking me awake.
Tail between leg, I crawled home like a vagabond on the final leg of his journey. Filthy and matted with shame and self-loathing, I reached out blindly in the dark.
My mother’s hands, tense but forgiving, were miraculously still there waiting to be accepted. I fell to my knees, and caught the most brief, beautiful glimpse of paradise at her feet.
The hands that fed me, held me as I slept and also dried my tears in infancy, retained their memory and reassured me similarly as I grieved.
In adulthood, I look upon my mother’s hands in awe, as they age gracefully, and are still just as soft.
I will never hesitate to count my blessings, of which, she is number one. My own hands have learned selflessness from observing hers.
The strength and guidance from my mother’s hands taught me how to walk and now I can finally stand, proudly holding my mother’s hand.
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