15/01/2026
I held my mother’s hand
when I was small—
sticky fingers, skinned knees,
trusting she would always know the way.
Her grip was firm then,
steady, sure,
pulling me forward into the world.
I held my mother’s hand
as I grew—
through hallways and hard days,
through lessons learned the long way.
Sometimes I pulled ahead,
sometimes I resisted,
but she never let go first.
I held my mother’s hand
on my wedding day.
Her touch softer then,
eyes full,
letting go just enough
to give me to another life.
She squeezed like she was saying,
Go… but take my love with you.
I held my mother’s hand
as I became someone’s mother too—
our hands older now,
sharing quiet understanding
no words could ever explain.
She looked at me differently then,
like she saw both the child I was
and the woman I had become.
And then one day,
I held my mother’s hand
and felt how light it had grown.
No more leading.
No more letting go.
Just staying.
I traced the lines time had written there,
remembering every season they carried me—
how these same hands once brushed my hair,
wiped my tears,
taught me how to love.
I held my mother’s hand
as the room grew still,
and for the first time,
I became the steady one.
I whispered thank you.
I whispered goodbye.
I whispered I would be okay—
even if I didn’t believe it yet.
From the first step
to the last breath,
love passed through our hands.
And though I had to release her fingers,
I will always feel her holding mine—
in every memory,
every quiet moment,
every season that taught me
what it means
to be loved first.
