Thoughts upon seeing the hands of the Mother of a Latinx student -
She is an immigrant from Honduras.
Her hands are calloused and cracked.
They are the hands of a hard worker.
They are hands that work the land.
They are hands that cook and clean.
They are hands that tend and mend.
They are hands that work hard.
Her hands are warm and welcoming.
They are the hands of a loving person.
They are hands that clasp in prayer.
They are hands that touch the faces of her children.
They are hands that hold others.
They are loving hands.
My heart is like her hands.
My heart is an immigrant.
I will take her in.
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