The dentist and her

assistant move

in unison, four

hands in silence

passing tools

and cotton,

suction and light.

The dance of women’s fingers

beyond words.

Aware of all of it

or none; drifting

off to the night

I held my mother’s

hand.   Her breath

slowing and weaker

over hours,

her skin cool then

finally

cold.

For her life, her

love, I

weep with

gratitude that

could fill oceans.

“Are you okay?”

Afraid I’m in

pain the

concert of hands

pauses

No, no…I wave,

my eyes and

mouth and

throat full.

Don’t worry.

The play of hands

ends; my smile

restored. I blink

back into the

day with

my mother’s palm

cupped

lightly warm

in my own.

— D. L. Pughe

My beloved mother, Barbara Pughe

I think of you every day, sloshing with love,

and try to somehow live in your honor.