My Mother's Hands

One of my few attempts at non-rhyming (more towards free-verse) poetry.

I don't know what drips from my mother's fingers while she sleeps.

I thought, once, that it might be sweat
Great drops of salty water mopping up the kitchen floor
Mornings of 5 a.m. breakfast and 6 o'clock bus
School all day, lunch, work, dinner, stories, bed
Sickness in the night, vomit until 2:00, start again at 5 a.m.
But it's more than that
I thought, also, that it might be blood
Crimson pearls drip, drip, dripping to the bathroom floor
Little baby Emma who never joined us, despite mother's dreams
My bleeding skull or severed thumb, a leg torn knee to hip, nails in feet
The turkey still flapping it's feathers ten minutes after it stopped breathing
But it's more than that
I thought, too, that it might be love
Golden orbs pooling in the carpet on the living room floor
Clothing for 1,2,3,4,5 children and a father before a pair of shoes for her
Birthday breakfast in bed; eggs, juice, milk, cake and baby stories
Graduation night, sitting in the front chairs, crying, cheering and praising
But it's more than that
I thought, finally, that it must be life
Colorless puffs, breathed up by everyone
Feeding our aura's, egos, body and soul with herself
Shaping and molding us to be better and more than she hoped for herself
Taking the vomit, the nails, the tears and giving back health, wholeness, hope
And it's exactly that.