The other night my mother grasped my hand for a quick second at that moment I realized the finer details in my mother's hand, 

the soft texture and the delicate way she softly turned my own hands in hers.  

The same hands that held her red passport boarding the plane at just fourteen years old.  

Those hands held all four of her kids as they entered the world for the first time. 

Her hands pushed her up every morning before the sun is even able to get its first rays. Taking the cold water cupping her hands to throw it to her face so she can go on with her day. 

The hands that cooked dinner, did the laundry and put them away after a stressful day of work.  I’ve watched my mother's hands through hard times like for the time that she grabbed the box of tissues when her grandmother passed.

I’ve also seen them at her highest moments like when she put her hand out in the very same place she was born, and my father put the ring right onto her finger.  

My mother finally let go of my hand as delicately as she had taken it before.