I trace Mother’s hands with my own, the soft pads of my
thumbs falling victim to the deep fissures running over

her palms. Her hands are a map of her adventures, a
humble reminder of the love she marked on her children.

The blisters that crown her hand tell a titan’s tale, of how
she held up the sky to watch her daughter run free. The 

worn skin of her once fleshy fingers are a testament, to
the countless times she siphoned night terrors from her 

daughter’s dreams, smoothing back matted hair and gently
caressing youthful cheeks. The scars on her palms are 

remnants of the needle and thread she used to patch the
doubts in her daughter’s mind. Mother’s taut skin almost 

bursts at the seams: a reminder of the protection she bought
for the easy price of flesh and blood. And as Mother raises

her head to the night sky of my window, I see the moon
reflected in her eyes. She keeps watch through the night, the

constellations in her irises veiled with sleep. Mother wanes
with the moon, her luster fading with every waking minute.

I never understood the crazy things you do for love, yet I
was the sun to my mother’s moon. And the moon eats all the

darkness in this world,
dying every day so the sun can live.