You held your mother’s hand through life,
And mine, when I was small, I remember.
But as I grew, you pulled it away,
Made a fist, and shook it in my face.
So I held tight to my daughters’ hands,
Until they grew and pulled them away,
Reaching for others to hold, thanking me
With a wave that felt like a slap.
Now I keep my hands busy in the dirt,
Blaming the mud for their emptiness,
Pretending I am too busy, too dirty,
To find another hand to hold.