I first remember my mother's hand holding mine. Her hand was soft, silky and warm and also felt safe, like home. I then remember my mother's hand Once again, holding mine, Teaching penmanship. Now her hand, while silky and warm, Was suddenly firm, gliding over the paper, guiding. I also remember my mother's hand On my forehead, my head burning. This time her hand, silky and soft, was miraculously cool. So comforting and soothing, healing. At the end I remember my mother's hand When mine was doing the holding. Her hand was still silky and soft, But also heavy and hot, on fire. The last time I touched my mother's hand It was cold and hard, like ice. And, indeed, it was. And after that, I never touched My mother's hand again. But I try to remember it being soft, silky and warm And feeling safe, like home. Originally appeared in Jewish Currents magazine, May/June issue, 2007