A Mother’s Hands

 

I keep my knife so sharp that even slicing celery is easy peasy—

none of that skin left frayed at the edges.

My crisp cuts are cleaner than

hers

ever were; and

 

I dice the carrots much quicker than she

ever could do,

even while counting all of the times

she’d combed my hair with her slender fingers.

 

We used to have the same hands;

well-made for cooking, and raking tangles.