My Mother's Hands

I look at my hands.

They look like my mother’s hands;

they don’t look like mine

(even though I’m nearly 10 years older

than she was when she died).

But I am not my mother.

After surgeries and years of brutal cobalt treatment,

half of Mama’s face was paralyzed.

She walked unsteadily.

Still, from her kitchen window, if she saw an

elderly person (Sister Clark) trying to cross the street,

she would rush out to help her safely across.

Even if I lived on Main Street and Highway 89

like she did, I doubt if I would ever do that.

My hands might be my mother’s hands

but I am not my mother.

Regrettably.