Stories

this poem is not mine,but it really touched me:

My hands were busy through the day,
I didn't have much time to play
The little games you asked me to.
I didn't have much time for you.
I'd wash your clothes, I'd sew and cook,
But when you'd bring your picture book
And ask me, please, to share your fun,
I'd say "A little later, Hon."
I'd tuck you in all safe at night,
And hear your prayers and turn out the light,
Then tiptoe softly to the door.
I wish I'd stayed a minute more.
For life is short, and years rush past,
A little girl grows up so fast.
No longer is she at your side.
Her precious secrets to confide.
The picture books are put away,
There are no children's games to play,
No good night kiss, no prayers to hear.
That all belongs to yesteryear.
My hands once busy now lie still.
My days are long and hard to fill.
I wish I might go back and do
The little things you asked me to.

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Ava's Hands

Delicate, graceful, newborn mottled

Your wrinkled hands uncurl to encircle mine

Your hands that have touched so little

Will someday know first doll, first balloon,

First snow.  For now, your hands

Curl back into their fetal bud and wait.

I prayed, Ava, that your hands only touch

That which is good, an impossibility, yet

My hope.   May these tiny, magnificent hands

Touch beauty, touch safety, touch love.

I trace the lines on your palm, in awe

at the stories yet unwritten, and want to write

a code for peace, a promise for prosperity

and realize almost every mother has prayed

the same prayer, wished the same wish

as she held such a tiny hand, knowing

that that innocent hand may some day

know pain she would do anything to take away.

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