Sun Kissed Days

Sun Kissed Days

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Her Hands

I don't recognize these hands
blemished and wrinkled.
These hands
were attached to my body
for twenty years 
while I slept.
I awake to find them asking,
why I am reluctant to claim them.
They ask
why I pretend to be
a patient with temporary amnesia.
I don't recognize these hands,
they washed dishes,
changed soiled diapers,
turned pages,
and touched fevered foreheads.
Mom had beautiful hands,
even when she passed away
at eighty years old.
She rubbed them
with cream from Switzerland
after she finished
baked and cooked,
hung up her day,
like a coat on a hanger.
Mom caressed her hands,
as faint luxurious scent
floating in the air.
Mom had beautiful hands,
not mine.


  1. love this rip van winkle true..."Mom caressed her hands, / as faint luxurious scent / floating in the air." my favorite part...

  2. I love the idea of our body (or body part) asking why they are not recognized as ours. I wonder if my lower-back gets that feeling every now and again... For I'm sure those old bones aren't mine.

  3. I understand your poem & your thoughts. Ha, for years now I have thought I have had my mother's hands....rather than my own. I know this is not exactly your meaning, as you said your mother's hands were more beautiful than yours are. But STILL, there definitely is something about HANDS!

  4. I think often we look for blemishes much more on ourselves than others... I'm sure your hands are excellent :-)

  5. The memory of loving hands, those of your mother. Your hands too are lovely in their own way, as they have felt life differently.

  6. You brought this to life.
    and someone else reflects back to you (or to theirs)

  7. Love these lines in particular, Ayala:
    "I awake to find them asking,
    why I am reluctant to claim them."
    So poignant.

  8. This is beautiful and evocative of a number of women I have known ... loved ... and miss. Thank you for this.

  9. I feel the same way about my hands, Love how you have brought my thoughts to life in your poem,,

  10. Reading this reminded me of a poem my daughter wrote about my hands several years ago. I forgot about it, as I too do not recognize my own hands at times - except for my rings. Our hands are our connection to everything, touching, caressing, loving, molding, forming, cleaning, creating - I love this poem. Thanks for sharing with us.