My Farmer Son's Hands

 

My Farmer Son’s Hands

 

 

Crinkly, pink, tightly curled were your hands in the beginning, protected by the milky vernix of maternal love. When you clasped my finger, my heart felt so good, tears came to my eyes. You were the best baby a mother ever had, and you grew so fast on my abundant milk. Your hands soon grabbed jingly rattles and the soft blanket you always held to your nose and hated to part from. Your hands made winding roads in the sandbox, strewn with sharp pebbles and flower petals, and you drove your truck of life along it. Later, your hands worked in the barn, smelled of pigs. In school, your hands awkwardly held a pencil, but you learned to write your name and much more. As a teen, you loved cows, and coaxed sweet milk from their udders for the family to drink. Your hands caressed a special girl, and she became your wife. You harvested aromatic cedar posts with your hands, thousands of them, and drove them into the ground to make fences to keep the animals safe. As a man, your firm hand engulfed mine; your handshake made us equals. My son, your mother loves you, wherever you are. I miss you so much.

 

Louisa Bauman

  

Louisa Bauman lives in Toronto, Canada, and enjoys the view of the city from her fifteenth-floor balcony. She is the author of two historical fiction novels, Sword of Peace and Sister, Fight Valiantly, plus a picture book, True Story of a Lamb. For more, visit her website louisambaumanauthor.com