Mother’s Hands

By Selin Saliasi

I wonder if my mother’s hands

Now rough and calloused,

Used to be soft and supple,

With perfectly painted nails,

Delicate as the grapes she used to pick off her front porch in her childhood home.

Hands that now scrub stubborn grime

once wove daisy chains for her friends,

the scent of the sea salt beach,

replaced by bleach and cleaning products.

The cold city life that turns her snot black.

When did she trade her girlhood for motherhood?

Was it the day she first held my brother?

Or the day people touched her belly.

It was decided for her that day she stepped foot in that van

Packed like sardines

She couldn't get the stink of those strangers off for years

She hasn't seen her mother’s face in years.

She finished her first English exam that day

People ask if she’s excited to be a mother

She doesn’t know the answer to that question

Only that she has homework due tomorrow,

Does her heart pang when she hears the laughter of schoolgirls running down streets?

Her husband hasn't come back home yet

It's been weeks and she hopes he'll return soon

She flicked through those old storybooks her mum used to read her

I think she never had a chance,

Beneath my mother’s love, feels like a silent longing for what was.