Hands of our Family

My hands used to be so small,
I could hardly hold my mother's
little finger.

My fathers hands were so big,
he used to hold my head
in his palm and my mother would cry
because he held onto a bottle
that wasn't as white as my mother's milk,
but as dark as the demons in his eyes.

My mother's hands were fragile,
her fingers full of rings
so she could protect herself
from his furious fists.

I never knew why their love
was so different than friend's families,
I just thought that their screaming
between one another was their way
of showing each other how much
they cared for me,
even though he said he never meant
to have a family.

Mother usually stopped yelling then,
she would come into my room
and sing to me;
the only words I can remember were
"I will always see your father in your eyes and remember how beautiful he had
the strength to be".