Momma’s Hands
Always loved my momma’s hands
Large full-knuckled, strong
Rings a many, varied
Definitive cuts in dough
Brought forth her biscuits
Smelled so sweet all about her
Hands perched white pillbox hat
Careful of coif Momma was
Knew just where to pin and hold
Brushed my hair in the sunlight
See, red like Grandma’s
Soft the strokes through light so bright
Came home from school to silent house
Felt scared, Momma nowhere
Then hand turned page of beloved book
You Ashworth girls were the best dressed
Your momma knew so well
How to match fabric, pattern, child
Momma’s hands and clay were friends
Somehow they knew this
Rolled, shaped, painted, glazed together
Type, type, type, Momma loved to type
New recipes, poetry
Her hands gave shape to her thoughts
Momma’s hands picked up the phone
Turquoise eyes held tears
I don’t know what to do she cried
Quilt, Momma, quilt and begin now
Call you back later she answered
Soon first of many quilts laid out
How it ended so quickly
Infection came, bloomed
Her old hands in bed beside her
Strong hands, Momma’s good hands
Dying like the rest of her
I held one hand in my hand
Strong it felt, rings on it, calm
Let me stroke and stroke
Let me love you, love you
Young girl in a dream last night
Walked to the horizon
Arms beside her sides, hands in the light
Joan Ashworth-Ward is a retired first grade teacher who now does volunteer hospice massage work through Chomp. She was prompted to write this poem upon the death of her lovely mother two years ago. Joan has lived in Carmel Valley for three years and attends Illia Thompson’s weekly creative writing group. She has loved to write ever since she was a child.
Always loved my momma’s hands
Large full-knuckled, strong
Rings a many, varied
Definitive cuts in dough
Brought forth her biscuits
Smelled so sweet all about her
Hands perched white pillbox hat
Careful of coif Momma was
Knew just where to pin and hold
Brushed my hair in the sunlight
See, red like Grandma’s
Soft the strokes through light so bright
Came home from school to silent house
Felt scared, Momma nowhere
Then hand turned page of beloved book
You Ashworth girls were the best dressed
Your momma knew so well
How to match fabric, pattern, child
Momma’s hands and clay were friends
Somehow they knew this
Rolled, shaped, painted, glazed together
Type, type, type, Momma loved to type
New recipes, poetry
Her hands gave shape to her thoughts
Momma’s hands picked up the phone
Turquoise eyes held tears
I don’t know what to do she cried
Quilt, Momma, quilt and begin now
Call you back later she answered
Soon first of many quilts laid out
How it ended so quickly
Infection came, bloomed
Her old hands in bed beside her
Strong hands, Momma’s good hands
Dying like the rest of her
I held one hand in my hand
Strong it felt, rings on it, calm
Let me stroke and stroke
Let me love you, love you
Young girl in a dream last night
Walked to the horizon
Arms beside her sides, hands in the light
Joan Ashworth-Ward is a retired first grade teacher who now does volunteer hospice massage work through Chomp. She was prompted to write this poem upon the death of her lovely mother two years ago. Joan has lived in Carmel Valley for three years and attends Illia Thompson’s weekly creative writing group. She has loved to write ever since she was a child.