"Her Hands" | A Poem for My Mother
My Mother Died of Breast Cancer 15 Years Ago
Writing poetry can be a cathartic and cleansing experience. I wrote this poem about six months after my mother's death, spilling almost complete onto the paper, needing little revision afterward. This is, as you may guess, an intensely personal poem I have not shared with many people until now.
My mother has been gone for fifteen years now, and we just passed what would have been her 70th birthday.
Poem and photos copyright © 1990-2011 Carma Paden.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Do not copy without permission.
1965, my mom with my older sister and me.
My mother, Betty Jane Stewart, was a gracious Southern lady born in Memphis, Tennessee. She married a Texan and raised her children in Texas. She was horrified by the Texas hillbilly drawl coming from her children's mouths and would not let us get away with "whur" and "thar" instead of "where" and "there" - but she never lost her own sweet Tennessee accent.
She died in May 1996 when my only child was eight months old. She was 54 years old and the breast cancer of a few years before had metastasized to her liver. She was survived by her mother, her husband of thirty-four years, her three children, and five of her nine grandchildren (all three of my sister's children, one of my brother's two children, and one of my four children were already born). Her father and two brothers predeceased her.
Have You Lost a Parent?
Psalm 116:15
Precious in the sight of the Lord
is the death of his saints.
My mother, Betty Jane Stewart.
This photo was taken after her breast cancer, but before it moved to her liver.
Her Hands
for my mother, addressed to my daughter
In your high chair you sit
beside me at the sink
watching my hands in and out of the soapy water
When suddenly I am not at the sink looking down
but beside it looking up
up at her hands in water like this
Hands that looked then as mine look now
long and a little bony
with veins that show ropy and blue
And through a sudden shine of tears
I cannot see my hands at all
or you
But only her hands
hands that will not hold mine again
hands that won't write my name again
Hands that lifted you only once
then waited for others to place you gently in her lap
then folded together empty forever
Your sweet fat hands my daughter
that look like starfish now
in silhouette against a nightlighted ceiling
Your hands like mine
will grow long and a little bony
will someday show blue ropy veins
And you will wonder peevishly
why your hands must grow to look like mine
as I once wondered why mine must grow like hers
You will not know that they are her hands
long departed
and that her hands caressed you through mine
Poem and photos copyright 1990-2011 Carma Paden.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Do not copy without permission.