I lost my mother’s hand the day I was born
but another reached out for mine and held me dear.
I lost her hand in Woolworths
amongst the monstrous mahogany counters
of broken biscuits and loose buttons.
When I lost my footing on the garden wall
her lost hand warmed the bump I still have on the head.
I lost my mother’s hand as a teenager in spite….
In spite of which it was always there.
There until the final last loss with death
and its rediscovery in a box of old photographs.
© Sheila Ash 19 March 2016
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