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My Mother's Hand

's story posted on March 09, 2009 at 12:00 am. emigrated from Leningrad/St. Petersburg, USSR to Unknown, United States in 1979

I first remember
my mother's hand
holding mine.

Her hand
was soft, silky and warm
and also felt safe,
like home.

I then remember
my mother's hand
Once again,
holding mine,
Teaching penmanship.

Now her hand,
while silky and warm,
Was suddenly firm,
gliding over the paper,
guiding.

I also remember
my mother's hand
On my forehead,
my head burning.
This time her hand,
silky and soft,
was miraculously cool.
So comforting and soothing,
healing.

At the end I remember
my mother's hand
When mine was doing the holding.
Her hand was still
silky and soft,
But also heavy and hot,
on fire.

The last time I touched
my mother's hand
It was cold and hard,
like ice.
And, indeed, it was.

And after that,
I never touched
My mother's hand
again.

But I try to remember it
being soft, silky and warm
And feeling safe,
like home.


Originally appeared in Jewish Currents magazine, May/June issue, 2007


1 Comments

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Alla Meikson:

great poetry--- feels 'like home'.

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