Poem: Baby Hands

 

Baby Hands

“His hands are so big!”
the nurse said as she
looked at the newborn.
”Maybe he will play
football when he grows?”

“Or the piano?”
interjects the child’s
biologically
worried mom from bed,
worn out from labor.

It’s more of a prayer
than a suggestion.
Dear Lord, please don’t let
my baby get hurt.
Please, spare him from pain.

Though he is only
seven hours old,
he has become an
irrevocable
part of her world.

Please Lord, please don’t let
my entire world get
crushed playing football…
She prays as she lies
helpless in her bed.

As the years went by,
the boy and his hands
continued to grow.
Mom was no longer
trapped in a wheeled bed.

But she did remain
helpless because her
whole world was outside
of her own body,
growing separate.

She signed him up for
piano lessons
and begged for practice
for reasons he could
never understand.

But he didn’t want
to play piano.
He begged for football
for reasons she would
never understand.

And the mother’s world
continued to grow
with the child and hands.
She signed the boy up
for football and hoped.

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