Hands

By Tory Walker

Mama’s hands were roadmaps of many lifetimes

Heavily veined and wrinkled, I found them beautiful

She told of a childhood with frozen lakes to skate on

And snowstorms that made homes into cages, doors unable to open

Folks weathered by withering winters whose winds worked into weary bones

I examined them carefully during church and wondered

If Minnesota cold made hands like that

Or if God did