Don’t even look alike

I love maa’s hands.
They are not pretty,
They are not perfect,
They don’t even look alike.

They are so callused, it makes a sandpaper seem softer;
They have sewn together my bursted seams, as well as hers, you see.
They have nails so chipped, they make a baby’s nails seem longer;
They have borne my pain, as though it was hers, you see.
They are so strong, they make daddy’s hands seem frail;
They have fought away my monsters with me, you see.

I love maa’s hands.
Because, they have accomplished moulding imperfection into a flair.
Because, they have manifested the transience of beauty, for the whole world to see.
Because, they have proficiently held my hand, everytime I stumbled, or let me fall, if need be.
Because, they might not be soft, but feel velvety when rested on my forehead.
Because, they have just not wiped my tears, but taught me to wipe them myself.
Because, they have never ceased to wrap me in their warmth, when the world seems too cold.
Beacuse, holding them feels like holding my whole life in the palm of my hand.
Because, they don’t hide mysteries in their hollows, but the key to the quest of discovering them.

I love maa’s hands.
They are not pretty,
They are not perfect,
They don’t even look alike.