Cotton Hands

Rain falls from the sky as if the heavens were crying. My brain has been shot out of my head and my heart has been ripped from my chest. She was my mother– the beautiful woman that lay still in her casket. Her pale skin looks ghostly, yet her lips shine red and her face elegant. It feels like it was yesterday. My body quivers as I recall the sadness that crashed over me, like a wave cascading onto the rocky shore. I can still smell the lemony scent of hand sanitizer, and I remember doctors sticking needles into her frail body– transforming her into a lifeless robot. I buried my tear-stained face into my hands as I heard her screams. My thoughts collapse under the weight of this tragedy, so I touch her hands to feel something– anything from this memory. They are colder than the snow, yet soft like cotton. I kiss her cheeks as tears flow down from mine. I wish that that day had never happened, except wishes like that do not come true. So I slowly turn back, crying the tears I wish she would wipe away with her cotton hands. 

Sophia Kurdes, Grade 9

Creative Writing Major