On the day my mother died,
my hands are empty.
All stitches knit,
needles freed. They are at rest.

As I think about the road
that took her, too narrow for us all,
my hands seek pen and paper.
Did you see her eyelids fall?

On the day that took her,
my hands find herbs and ribbons.
Five times, they’ll close the circle for a wreath,
including one for me.

As I think about the tree,
that crushed our car, nameless,
I can still see her face,
as she was turned towards me.

My hands are empty,
no mother to hold them.
It is the beginning of my story,
the one that hurts to tell.