Finger Printless Women

My mother's hands were chapped and dry;

acrid land.

She washed the never ending line of dishes,

the piles of soiled laundry, and us.

No accolades, nor awards, a mumbled thanks in passing (maybe).

To the hands that held so much together.

Through the caring, cleaning, and scrubbing.

In the background.

Laughing, caring, crying.

Her prints were washed away.

Barely leaving a mark, but her presence has shaped mountains.

Her prints gone.

Slowly taken.

But not forgotten.

Like so many before her and so many to come.

By: Heather Alaine Smith