Julia’s hands tell a story,
all cut up and bruised-
paint a sad picture of painful loss-
no pain, no gain, no glory.
been working those hands
since her mama died at eighteen.
She took over a grown up’s work load
when tragedy hit their lowly abode.
Julia sent away to labor in far away lands.
Her hands never wore any rings.
Not once did she ever paint her nails,
no time for self adornment;
She looks at girls her age, in sheer wonderment;
pretty dresses, perfumed locks, perfectly painted nails.
Does Julia cry,”Why me? Why me?” ever?
No, this young girl knows that alas,
her lot in life is for now, certainly not forever.
Eva Santiago Copyright 2011