I look at my hands.
They look nothing like my mothers hands.
Hers were small and china cup delicate
though powerful enough to create our universe.
Her fingers, slim and incandescent, resolving into perfect oval nails.
She scoffed and dismissed those fingers as not enough,
lacking the reach for that next ivory key
reserved for the true concert pianist.
That not good enough created all the sounds of my childhood-
Church hymns,
Schubert and Haydn,
tin pan alley,
Gershwin,
Lennon and McCartney,
Mozart.
I miss her strong hands, pale and translucent,
I miss my mother’s hands holding my hands.
thecourseofourseasons 
This is so delicate, touching ❤ & the very soul.
Thank you Jyoti.
Beautiful poem. My condolences on your loss.
Thank you, Lydia
this one made me tear up a bit… beautifully done
Yes, how you must miss those hands, holding yours. I believe her spirit is never far though.
Love this, Kathleen. I sense a confident determination in this piece.
Well done