Once rejected and refused,

her stick was  used,

grasped in hands gone

to mere knuckle and bone.

Those hands were plump

with sofa-pad like lumps;

could slap when needed

if commands were flouted

or I shouted

a pre-teen’s shrill defiance.

Quick of temper, never

far from an anger

waiting in the wings to

enter the centre stage of her brow.

Those hands stroked my chest;

childhood asthma, lungs whistling

like a sick kitten’s purr.

No ayah, but she

carried my tall child’s body

in wheezy night hours.

She covered school books in brown

stuck labels on each, written clearly.

The class teacher held them

up as neat examples.

I felt guilty

for currying favour, slyly.

Those hands are no more.

But they still stroke my mind

in my daily grind.

(Written after recently giving away her personal effects to an old home.)