The mother was the opposite of calm.
She fidgeted with antsiness and stress,
and never showed her children either palm
except to slap or signal Stop. Unless
the mother slept, her fingers weren’t still.
She picked non-stop – her little girl’s demands
for comfort brushed aside, refused, until
she found a high school friend with quiet hands.

That daughter’s kids are parents now, and all
the babes are miracles. The latest one
has hands that make his grandmother recall
her friend, her frenzied mom. Now she’s begun
to let her hands relax when holding air.
The freight is weightless, and there’s comfort there.