Made of Finer Clay

There was a time I saw my mother's hands and noticed quite a difference between hers and mine hers were fine soft and smooth with lovely nails, refined While mine- so rough and dried no lotion could soothe or hide the blisters and the callouses while hers were fit for palaces mine were like a scullery maid's accustomed to hard work I often thought looking at her that we must have been made of different stuff for even though she was a simple woman no frills or fluff she seemed somehow to be made of finer clay Like porcelain- delicately enchanting but prone to chips and cracks while I, more like a sturdy stoneware strength and durability making up for what I lacked I never knew just how true this was until she died never realized just how fragile she really was, because she was the vessel that originally carried me