My Mother’s Hands, by Carolyn Dyle

My Mother’s Hands

My mother bore the burden
On a cold and snowy morn,
Grandma heeded the call
Into her hands I was born.
From her hands to my mother’s
I was handed into her arms.

I still remember her golden voice
Singing lullabies in harmonic tones,
Her hands strumming strings,
Chord progressions she made her own.

I remember the quilts she pieced together
Each piece stitched by her hands,
Piled high and warm around me
While I snuggled in her bed,
I can still feel the satin and velvet
Bound together by her love,
Always warm and reassuring
When nights were cold and wet.

Momma’s quilts are a story
About what makes a house a home.
Each swatch of fabric in the nine-patch
Has a story of its own.
One piece comes from her draperies,
One from her table cover,
Another from a favorite shirt

Once worn by my brother.
Each piece bound with love,
Each piece sewn by her hands.

Although I wandered when I was younger,
She made sure I always knew,
She’d always be waiting for me,
No matter what I was going through.
And no matter how big I would grow,
I’d never be too big for her to hold.

Mother’s Hands

Carolyn Dyle

Marisa Sayago, Hija Mia, 2008, ceramic
Marisa Sayago, Hija Mia, 2008, ceramic