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