Poetry Pick

MY MOTHER'S HANDS After reading poem of same title by Joseph Farina Venera Fazio

At five years of age my mother's hands kept pace with her sharecropper parents as they gathered sacks of almonds, hazelnuts, and winter olives. She knew their harvest was divided between them and the landowner, the Duke. My mother's hands remembered the poverty of her seven siblings as she tightly wound parcels in strips of faded bedsheets to ensure a safe postal journey to Sicily. Her hands stirred heavy pots of pasta large enough to feed two families, the five of us and the immigrant relatives we sheltered. My mother's hands smelled of pickle factory brine where she worked after my father's depression kept him home. My mother's hands paid a week's factory salary for my chiffon graduation dress, the colour of the cobalt Mediterranean she left behind. My mother's hands gently caressed the cheeks of her grandchildren. My mother's hands halted the dialysis machine declaring, my time has come. My mother's hands rested on the hospital bed sheet. Her body radiated white light of eternal grace. From Tower Poetry, Vol.60 #2 Winter Edition 2011-2012

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