Elisabeth Anne Wingle
My Baby's Hands - Poem by Elisabeth Anne Wingle
Oh how I love my baby's hands
Tiny, delicate, fragile
I am awestruck
I stare at them
Kiss them, touch them
They grasp my finger with such force, that I know it is intentional
Later, she opens and closes them with arms stretched upwards
Silently pleading 'pick me up, pick me up'
Later still, chubby fingers grasp my hand as she toddles down the sidewalk, desperately trying to keep up with her own feet!
Another day, at the window, her hand is happily waving good-by to me
But the tears in her eyes contradict that wildly waving hand.
'How old are you? ' Asks a lady in the grocery store
'I am three at my birthday ' she says, proudly trying to stick three fingers in the air and hold two down at the same time
My baby is three now
One minute her hands are folded angelically, while she thanks God for her meal
The next moment her finger is pointing at me
'I don't like you anymore ' she shouts
Yes, her moods change quickly
Now I feel a small, soft hand on my cheek,
'I'm sorry Mommy'
Oh how I love my baby's hands!
I pray that when it is my turn to leave this earth,
That gentle hand will be holding mine
Elisabeth Wingle 1993
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