**The Passing of the Approach**

​I used to think her hands were just hands,

making breakfast, smoothing down my hair,

turning the pages of a book before bed.

I was too small to see the quiet weight they carried,

or the way she bent her own back

so that I could stand a little taller.

​Now, the years have written their lines upon her,

a map of every worry she carried for me,

and every joy she gave away.

I look at her now, not from below, but eye to eye,

and finally see the fierce, quiet magic

it took to build a shelter out of love.

​If I could, I would gather up the hours

and give them back to her, wrapped in gold.

But instead, I hold her hand—smaller now—

and hope she hears the unsaid words in my chest:

Thank you for the quiet storms you fought for me,

thank you for teaching me how to grow.