My mother had large hands with long fingers.
They were soft and smooth,
burnished to a pink shine
from the lotion she rubbed
into them each night.
She loved to fold things With those hands.
Open up any closet, pull out any drawer,
and there they were,
towels and sheets and dish cloths,
handkerchiefs, even underwear,
folded into tight squares
with perfect 90° angels and stacked
into columns with the precision of an engineer.
When she was old and
after she moved into hospice,
we would move her bed
close to the widows in the evenings.
She would sit in the twilight,
breathing hard, her hands floating
above her lap, moving in little circles,
looking for things to fold.