Long ago when I was a little girl
My Mother was truly my entire world.
She was a beauty, to beat the band!
But her prettiest feature was her hands.

Tapered fingers with graceful long nails
I was always jealous, mine were chipped and pale
Smooth and soft and covered with rings,
So expressive, and tender among other things.

As years went by her hands got old
Blue-veined and wrinkled, they were always cold.
Her nails were unkempt, in fact she’d quit caring
She hid them in fact, they were no longer for sharing.

The last day she was alive in the hospital bed
I held her small hand, the close end I did dread.
But I noticed one thing as I looked down at her hand,
The only difference in our hands was my wedding band.