“Thank the work of our
hands …”
-Richard Blanco, One Today
I never thanked the work
of my mother’s hands
that sewed clothes for
my sisters and me
that made comida out of
a sparse pantry
that prayed and
hand-crafted rosaries,
hands that cleaned other
people’s houses
and other people’s
children.
I never thanked the
work
of my sisters’ hands
that dutifully cared for
me
when my mother could not
and that helped me with
my homework.
Often it was their young
overworked hands
that scraped together
the rent.
To this day, it is their
hands
that mean most to me.
I never thanked the
work
of my father’s hands
that sliced the flesh
from fresh carcasses
in a chilled meat
packing plant,
hands that helped me
move,
that changed my oil.
Tired hands that say, “I
love you”
when his words cannot.
I never thanked the
work
of my Tia Noche’s hands
that showed me how to
work efficiently
in my first job out of
high school
at the explosives
factory.
Her hands invited me to
work puzzles
spread out on the dining
room table,
the one only used for
special occasions.
I never thanked the
work
of my friends’ hands
that offer welcoming
handshakes
enthusiastic support,
and comforting hugs.
Their talented hands
show me
what is possible.
I never thanked the work
of the hands
of the men I loved
skilled hands that
tilled soil, picked fruit,
danced across keyboards,
and augmented machinery.
Hands that caressed my
face
and whose gentle fingers
traced my lips.
Hands that, in public
and in private,
searched for and
enfolded mine.
All these loving,
working hands
that wipe countertops,
chalkboards, and
windshields,
as well as sweaty brows
and mournful tears,
reach for me when I am
lost.
They proudly pat my back
or gently take my arm.
No, I have never thanked
the work
of these many hands.
Nor I have ever thanked
the work
of my own hands
that clenched a garden
hoe
as I walked uneven
fields,
hands that blistered,
cracked,
and bled under an assiduous sun.
These hands labor so my
soul can search
and my mind can reflect
on and thank
the work of our hands.
