Hands

I used to look at Mama Fina's hands
so soft and rice-paper-like
she would scratch my head for hours or minutes

they made bread, beds, tortillas, hair fixed neatly in braids

I look at Mio's hands that have washed diapers, plucked piojos, picked corn, plucked thorns, and graded papers

so soft from years of jergens

Mama's hands are always moving
She is drawing, her fingers given a break from slicing and washing
and loving the freedom of sienna and thalo blue and smudge

My hands look old somehow
clenched fists
pointed fingers
outstretched fingers
wringing of hands

Do I carry them all in my hands?