by Amy Henning
A neatly trimmed fingernail scrolls
down the list of names.
The phone book so flimsily large
in her gentle, aged hands.
A familiar resemblance I canít quite make clear
like a latent photograph image coming to light.
Her cool soft hand on my arm reassures
that the number she dialed is correct.
I continue to study her fingers and wrists
out of touch with her phone conversation.
Recognizing each curved fore finger
and the wrinkled ridges of skin at each bend.
A freckle appears in the same patch of skin
like the delicate signature of the artist.
Always reluctant to notice the likeness before,
foolishly denying any parallel to my mother
suddenly now such similarities are a delight
my hands are a piece of her,
forever, I will hold dear.