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.

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