“You can always tell a woman’s age by the back of her hands,”
My mother said to me.
The back of my hands are spotted and marked.
They unfold my life story however stark.
“You are too young to marry,”
My mother said to make me savvy.
Little babies soon came to be filling my days
With sunshine and strife.
My hands are harsh and dry against their soft skin.
Can I love enough and warm their stride?
Time moves fast and so do they.
Now I see them shine as they pave their way.
I cannot hide my pride.