Hand That Holds
When I was a baby she held me close with a grip
that could not be broken,
This helpless little body in her hands.
And as I grew she held my hand, my first words not
As I tried to hold my own and learn to stand.
Later on, her same strong hand chased away my doubt
Her touch made all the monsters go away.
Yet in that hand I could see it written so very,
Authority when I wanted things my way.
But then I grew and loosened the grip, letting go
of childish ways,
Not needing her hand to protect me from the world.
I was my own person now, more mature every day,
No longer seeing myself as "Momma's little girl".
So through the years the hand grew old, weary and
Not looking as it did years ago.
It missed the touch of that child as it would brush
across her cheek,
And feel the warmth of her skin as it glowed.
But this hand was not needed now, sadly its task
It had raised the child to be out on her own.
So as each day passed the hand grew weak with the
setting of each sun,
As it lay bruised and tattered and all alone.
But then a touch-a familiar touch when life was at
A feeling incomparable to any other.
She felt the grip of her hand in mine as I reached
to my best friend,
The hand that belonged to my mother.
So though we grow and learn, we remember who we
Every life goes through so many phases.
Now it's easy to look back and to see from afar,
The only difference is the hands traded places.
For I will hold her hand forever, from this day on,
Till the time comes for one of us to leave.
And if my day should come first and I am called
She will be there to hold my hand for me.