I recently lost my mum. Tears well up just writing that. It is not something I have processed. But I feel the need to share the poem I wrote to be read out at her service. It’s a poem I adapted from a post on this blog, written more than ten years ago for Mother’s Day. Who knew then that it would be turned into a poem to say goodbye to my mum.
So here it is.
My Mother’s Hands
When I was young
I would look at my mother’s hands and tell myself
mine would never look the same.
No matter how much hand cream she used,
her hands stayed dry, chapped,
worn by something I did not yet understand.
Now I do.
Now I have children of my own.
Now that I too carry that quiet, sacred title of mum.
And only now do I see what her hands were telling me all along.
They were worn from washing our tiny fingers
and scrubbing mud from our clothes,
from grass-stained knees and childhood adventures.
From bathing us, washing our hair after long days playing outside.
From cooking meals, washing dishes,
and doing the endless, unseen work that makes a house a home.
Hands in water.
Hands in soap.
Hands in dough.
Working from morning until night,
day after day, year after year.
When we started school, she worked in one too – in the kitchen –
cooking, baking, creating –
before coming home to start all over again.
She never complained.
She simply mothered.
And now,
when I look down at my own hands, I see the same story.
They look older than I expected,
a little tired,
a little worn.
And I am proud that they look just like my mother’s did.
Because now I understand –
her hands were not just worn by time.
They were worn by love.
And they were worn for us.
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