Hands

Hands can be smooth,

hands can be rough.

Yours no longer move,

although you used them enough.

Hands can be used for good,

hands can be used for bad.

Yours have never been in question, I've always understood,

but if you could see me today would you be proud or sad?

Since you departed

its been a lot harder to keep my hands as smooth.

I miss your hands, the hands of an artist,

the hands that would give plants back their youth.

I am not conflicted,

I know you're resting in peace, where you belong. 

I know your hands are gifted,

and I'm sure you're painting a great skyline from beyond.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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