My Mother’s Hand
I had morning coffee in the sunshine on the deck this morning. As I glanced at my hand wrapped around the cup, I hesitated with a warm familiarity clearly recognizing my mother’s hand.
I recalled the shine of her nails, I remembered her fingers that my once tiny hand would cling too and felt the softness of her skin as I rubbed my one hand across the other.
Many decades have passed since I had this opportunity and for a few heartfelt moments I was given an amazing gift.
I closed my eyes and I held my mother’s hand.