Calloused hands, cracked and cold,
Skin like dried-out Play-Doh.
Deep cuts in the knuckle-creases
And nails gnawed down to nothing.
Yellow stains from cigarettes
She rolls with cheap tobacco.
These are the hands that tousled my hair
And tied my shoes before school.
The hands that played in frying pans
And scrubbed the stains from my shirts.
Not these bony, blue-veined fingers,
With skin as thin as rolling papers.
Looking as soft as satin, neatly folded
Across her dress, perfumed to death.
What happened to your hands, I wonder,
Watching them stay still for the first time.
The stoic face in the casket answers me:
“Sometimes all we need is rest”.