My mother’s hands, the same ones that held my own, when I was learning to

walk, were not fast enough to catch me when I decided that I was going to run

I was precocious and believed I knew it all, that somehow I had outgrown

her

, my very first friend, and that I

was invincible; I could not fail.

She was there as I turned every corner, though I pretended she did not

exist.

Despite my arrogance, I still landed

into her arms with every fall, desperate for the cure of her doting kiss.

Nursed back to health, I chose to forget her loving care and was once again dedicated to my own detriment.

In a rush to grow up, I

experimented with every poison, convinced that it was surely what would help me

mature.

In my teenage haste, I failed to observe my mother’s hands folded in prayer,

and wondered instead when she would distance herself from my despair.

In reality, she was asking God to help

repair the lost little lamb that took too many wrong turns yet fancied himself

a man.

Anyone else would break if subjected to my torment, my behaviour worsening by the

hour with each new cry for help.

But not my mother… she possessed immeasurable strength, and managed to withstand

each atrocity that I unleashed.

Many would have given up or in, unable to continue fighting a losing

war.

This was when her hands grew tired

and ached with pain, weathered from my stubborn storms.

Sunny days surrounded by sycophants as I rejected the unconditional love at

home, turned quickly cold as my false pride held my head up to deny the consistent

truth.

My lowest moments arrived amidst the lost souls that also sailed through

dire straits; they provided me with clarity, shaking me awake.

Tail between leg, I crawled home like a vagabond on the final leg of his

journey.

Filthy and matted with shame

and self-loathing, I reached out blindly in the dark.

My mother’s hands, tense but forgiving, were miraculously still there

waiting to be accepted.

I fell to my

knees, and caught the most brief, beautiful glimpse of paradise at her feet.

The hands that fed me, held me as I slept and also dried my tears in

infancy, retained their memory and reassured me similarly as I grieved.

In adulthood, I look upon my mother’s hands in awe, as they age gracefully,

and are still just as soft.

I will never hesitate to count my blessings, of which, she is number

one.

My own hands have learned

selflessness from observing hers.

The strength and guidance from my mother’s hands taught me how to walk and

now I can finally stand, proudly holding my mother’s hand.