I have my mama’s hands.

Each little intricate vein running through, just as hers.

I have admired this for as long as I can remember.

We have sat them side by side, linked together by an ancestry of generations.

Both pairs having dug through many trials and tribulations

coming out scared, but still ready to fist forward and fight through another day

Even if that’s the only thing they can manage to do that day.

I have held these mirrored hands as a little girl simply walking across the street,

And I have held these hands to hers as I cried, broken hearted.

And now, I have held these hands until the blood was left only flowing through mine.

As the cool crisp air floats into season, I will wallow in the silence.

The silence that seeps in slowly as we each grow older.

A breeze that slowly runs across each and every wrinkle,

taking its time, getting to know each and every inch of the day’s trials that have been laid across our paths.

The chill across my skin makes each bend of the elbow or knee stiff like an un-oiled wheel.

But even with the feel of an old body lifting me out of bed in the morning,

I will yearn to watch each brightly colored leaf fall from each tree.

A rebirth of nature and a rebirth of the world.

A world that will inevitably go on.. circling in the galaxy as we, in our bubble, grieve the loss

of an impeccably compassionate, perfectly constructed, vibrant angel.

A second chance, over and over, as this planet bows with a humbleness hoping that

we will nurture and care for it once again.

And a second chance, over and over, for a rebirth of our own spirits.

This chill throughout my body reminds me that…… I. am. alive.

So at the end of each day, as the temperature drops, I will watch the sun go down with a

humble heart.

I will sit late into the night, appreciating the quiet and speaking my grateful heart into the universe.

Fall, fall, take me to your leader.

Let me bow at their feet with thankfulness for the gift to see through and past my body’s pain, and this life’s

burdens,

straight to the beauty in the chill bumps.

Let me honor these hands, my mama’s hands, by giving them life.

Oh God, give me the chance to use these hands for good in the memory of the one who passed them on to me.

And even as I tremor, and even when I am at my lowest, let the beauty around me humble me….

And my mama’s hands.