I Am a Daughter and I Have Seen Weak Hands

I am a daughter and I have seen weak hands, two of them. 
Shaking as the news was delivered in the living room, 
Happy yellow walls surrounding us in December of 2001 
Gesturing as my mother tried to beat around the bush, avoiding the inevitable 
And they held tissues, and reports, our hands and their own. 
And they wiped tears, held hugs, ran through my brown curly hair and gently seized my crying 
And they were idle as my mother’s eyes witnessed needles and medicine and blood counts and pain killers and stitches and new scars, all for the first time 
And they cooked up recipes at new years, Christmas, Thanksgiving (with the classic sweet potato soufflé), Easter. 
And they ran through light brown locks, fistfuls of hair in both hands. 

I am a daughter and I have seen weak hands, two of them 
They were tired and awkward but loving and gentle 
And they kept finding more lumps, bumps, knots, tumors 
That temporarily went away because of chemo and radiation and surgery and medicines and sometimes it worked 
Occasionally, we thought it was gone for good. 
But they attempted to be strong 
They threw basketballs and softballs and held a cheerleading coach’s clipboard, reaching out to every person that they could impact. 
But they grew nervous and sweaty, and fiddled and fidgeted on the Monday after the doctors awaiting the results. 

I am a daughter and I have seen weak hands, two of them 
Throwing a line with bait out into the lake, waiting until dusk to get the large bass 
Grasping the sides of the canoe clumsily as her eyes watched her husband laugh a little as they hit a petite wave. 
But the weak hands grew weaker and held cold metal bars during MRI’s, and cat scans, and brain scans. 
And they were motionless in shock as the doctor said there would be no more chemo, for it wasn’t making a difference. 
And they were strong as the news was delivered in the den, soothing green walls surrounding us in September of 2009. 
And they were loving and calming as she wiped the tears of her daughters, her mother and her sister away from their cheeks. 
And they felt numb and weak and tingly and unfamiliar as the pain medication took over. 
And they held hands, hugs, teddy bears and blankets in the new room 
Surrounded by familiar faces that loved her so 
But time passed and they were asleep, only voices murmuring in her head 
And then they reached for loving ones so desperately 
And then they fell cold. 

I am a daughter and I have seen weak hands, strong and loving, never relenting on what they care about. 
And some day-and it is only this which sustains me 
Someday we will meet again free of pain and sorrow 
On some beautiful day where I can run into the arms of my loving mother 
I am a daughter and I have seen weak hands turn into strong, my own. 
This, I took after my mother.