These hands are the hands of a working mother;

Worn and tired

Cracked like wet mud, drying

In the summer sun after its rained

These hands are the hands of comfort,

Chopping ginger root on a cold winter’s day,

Roasting the garlic,

And slicing limes

These hands are giving and never resting;

Selflessly incessant

Never told or asked;

Holding my tiny hand

These hands are loving.

They weave through my damp raven hair

Resting against my forehead when I am ill-

Separating the thin sheets of rice paper

These hands want to be loved;

Long days and long nights,

Pressed together, asking for guidance and forgiveness

Waving goodbye for now