Familiar Hands

  by Amy Henning

A neatly trimmed fingernail scrolls

down the list of names.

The phone book so flimsily large

in her gentle, aged hands.

A familiar resemblance I can’t quite make clear

like a latent photograph image coming to light.

Her cool soft hand on my arm reassures

that the number she dialed is correct.

I continue to study her fingers and wrists

out of touch with her phone conversation.

Recognizing each curved fore finger

and the wrinkled ridges of skin at each bend.

A freckle appears in the same patch of skin

like the delicate signature of the artist.

Always reluctant to notice the likeness before,

foolishly denying any parallel to my mother

suddenly now such similarities are a delight

my hands are a piece of her,

forever, I will hold dear.