Hands

The hand of my mother holds me yet

Short stubby fingers attached to a plump palm

Discolored from long years of illness

One hand supports all of her in flesh

The other merely a phantom

Reminding her all she's been through

The ghost of the past haunting her

Ability still engrained in her  

Both arms still there but one only in spirit

She raised me with those hands

Wild gestures as she taught a younger me the ways of the world

I grew up with those hands

Running her fingers through my hair

Massaging sore limbs

Building me a home

Arms which now live as a figment

Wrap around an egare child

Though sickness is demanding

Now she will grow old with only one

A part of her taken but the memory will never disappear

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Guide that inspired this poem: 

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