This is an account of all the hands I love.
I love:
The hands of my father
worn by service
torn by sacrifice
raised in prayer
destined to be answered;
The hands of my children
moistened by their tears
as they implore the Hand
that encompasses my soul;
The hands of my mentor
that grasp my own
when I lose my footing on that bridge,
pulling me safely to firm ground,
such strong hands;
The hands of my Habib
giving me drink from His Kauthar
That I may feel thirst no more.
I love his hands.
The hands of my mother
holding my face,
kissing it,
at last.
She looks into my eyes,
she finds them searching
for something…
someone…
She knows.
So she takes me by my hand
to another mother I recognize,
who steps aside
to reveal
you
and places
your hand
in my hand.
That’s why I bought this,
this sorry product of silver and stone
I’d like to think was wrought
by some caring workman’s hands
only to end up in a Macy’s display case,
begging for rescue,
longing for adornment:
would you give it that?
You know how much
I love your hands.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Eid Mubarak! 🙂
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