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Ode to My Mother’s Hands

Artwork by Cihan Öncü via Sleek Magazine

Fingernails always painted pink so the
chips do not show, poised over a keyboard
as they’d been over typewriters at seventeen.
When the boss is not looking, they sketch the
Eiffel Tower in the margins of a
notepad, remnants of dreams buried in the
park where her children now play. Whisk raw eggs with
a fork, coat the chicken, dip in breadcrumbs—
dinner for the whole week even though they
also made breakfast, lunch, and a sixth grade
book report on Susan B. Anthony.
One hand plus one hand makes however many it
takes to mend footsie pajamas and
broken hearts. Fingers pruned by knee-skinned tears,
thumb dirtied by the schmutz on your cheek—
someday, when these hands are withered,
I hope that mine are half as tender,
so that yours may be the ones held for a change.

__

Maria Conte is a writer from Staten Island, New York. A rising senior at Boston College, she’s pursuing a Bachelors in English with minors in Hispanic Studies and Faith & Justice. When not writing, she enjoys sketching, video games, and late night ice cream runs.

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