My Mother’s Hands

My Mother’s hands laced with blue

Have done most things that women do

Infants tended, clothing mended

Cooked the food, stayed level headed

During strife, days full and rich

Pulled life off without a hitch

Grumpy, mean and not so nice

I can’t think of one sacrifice

When my hands mirror hers

With memories blank or blurred

Will children see the things I’ve done?

Remember laughter and the fun

Smile through tears, don’t have a frown

I will not let my guard come down

When opposite I try to be

Not like her but being me