woman's hands
My Mother’s Hand in Mine
by Laura E. Garrard

Leaning my head against
my mother in church,
I take her hand,
caress its slender shape
and delicate skin.

From finger tip
to thin wrist,
outline prominent veins.
Twirl her gold rings
from my father,
never a question of love
between them or for
their two daughters.

My mother’s hand
is not calloused.
It never hits me,
hand of a speech pathologist.
Wispy as a leaf it lies
paper-poised in her lap
barely impressing her linen dress.
Her hand in turn takes mine.

Why do I now retract
From her touch?

It is a gradual death.
My mother’s absent
more and more as she
earns her doctorate.

One time I pretend to cry.
Curl like a cat on a comfy arm chair
in her sewing room and study.
She is away in the house
doing other things
and never comes.

Her hand consoles
my shoulder at times,
like when I feel unpopular.
We sit side by side
on the hall stairs,
plan a birthday party.

But in my memories after eight,
mostly I see the back of her head
while hands knead meatloaf
or cradle the phone.
Mom works, studies,
flurries here then there,
reappears to frost her unlevel cake.
Her independence may well have
created mine.

I walk as far from our house
as I feel safe,
ride my bike to friends’ homes
after school.
A round dinner table
resumes the family
and she serves us first.

Mom’s mad when I begin
to shave my legs,
to admire how smooth my skin is.
“You’re too young,” she says,
doesn’t talk much more with me
about things like that.

Later, sex before marriage
becomes a definite barrier.
From my first boyfriend
in college until I marry,
no man’s hands should replace hers.

I develop the soft strong hands
of a massage therapist,
Mom claims she could never do this job,
how very different we are.

Her hands drive and drive
to caretake her mother after a stroke.
She holds my grandmother’s
trembling overworked hand,
gently stroking it
as I watch.

ILLUSTRATION: Woman’s hands by Ludovic Alleaume (1920).

Laura E. Garrard, age 2, holding her mother's hand (1971).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I wrote this poem about my mother’s hands and our relationship after reading Joy Harjo’s poem, “My Man’s Feet.” I enjoyed Harjo’s focus on her husband’s feet to describe his roots, character, and foundational nature of his family. Women’s hands are central in our family, from skilled cooking and housekeeping to working and creating art. As girls become women, the relationship with their mothers naturally shifts from closeness to independence then to closeness again. “My Mother’s Hand in Mine” attempts to demonstrate this through focus on my mother’s, my own, and my grandmother’s hands. I discovered much in writing this poem and afterward have made a point to welcome my mother’s hugs more. She turned 83 in June 2024.

PHOTO: The author, age two, holding her mother’s hand (Birmingham, Alabama, 1971).

Garrard1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Laura E. Garrard, a 2022 Tieton LiTFUSE poetry scholar, holds a master’s in journalism from UT-Knoxville. She was an editor and proofreader for Country Music Foundation Press, Thomas Nelson, and Rutledge Hill Press, and contributed to the Journal of Country Music. The recipient of four scholarships from Centrum Writers Conference, her poetry appears in Amethyst, The Madrona Project, Salmon Creek Journal, Tidepools, and others. A cancer thriver, she writes from her home in Olympic National Park and supports clients’ healing through bodywork in Port Angeles, Washington. Follow her online news on LauraGarrard.com, PoetryInTime.com, Facebook, and Instagram.com.