by Mary Bertschi
she remembers are little sausage fingers,
Galaxies of paint, and glitter, dancing across ivory palms.
Tiny hands grabbing and giving,
All with dirt under nubby nails.
Years etched themselves into
A child’s hands with silver scars
And with each passing season, new lines.
Time flew by and nails grew,
And paint was replaced
By cherry varnish and filed tips,
And she continued to search for
The dirty grubby hands she knew.
New yet familiar hands
Illuminated from behind by the glow from car taillights,
And in the front glowing with light from the rising sun.
The last thing she remembers
Are those hands she grew up with,
Trailing out a sad car window
And slowly waving goodbye.
Poem Copyright © 2013 by