My mother’s eyes get sad sometimes
She thinks about hands smaller than mine
Tinier hands that she used to hold
That withered too soon, and too soon turned cold
I know that she thinks about them when I’m gone
And I know she thinks of them even though it feels wrong
And I hate that I’m helpless to shield her from pain
I hate that I wish she’d just forget all their names
And I hate when I feel that I’m lonely, too
If I’m lost without them, what will I do?
I have to be strong. I’m the only one left.
But my mother is sad. Her eyes fill with regret.
What did she do wrong, she asks me sometimes
And we both think of hands that are softer than mine
Beautiful hands that we used to hold
But then those hands disappeared, and we both grew old.