My Mother’s Hands

My mother’s hands have never belonged only to her.

They have cleaned, carried, cooked, lifted, held.

They have hidden pain inside ordinary movements.

There are stories in her fingers she will never write down.

Years of work. Years of giving. Years of saying, I am fine, because there was still something to do.

When I hold her hand, I do not feel age.

I feel the architecture of everything that kept us standing.