Mother, hands made for carrying you when you were as tiny as a freckle on your right cheek. Hands kind and soft, like your blanket at night. However, mine, my hands don’t appear kind and soft to a naked eye. Left and right hands don’t appear like a regular person's left and right hands. Hands, look like a bruise after falling down a flight of stairs. After a week, they will never fade. Blue and purple, never fading. Mothers hands, hold mine tight, even if they appear to look swollen and broken. Her hands aren’t judgmental, they’ve seen the worst of me, yet they are still there.

Hands. Everyone has them. Some large, some small. Others light and others dark. Hands made for holding , hands made for getting up after you fall down. Hands that are bruised, but never broken.