Women's History Month 2026

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Poem By: Melida Rodas 

 

When I was younger, I used to write about my mother’s hands.

Later about my own—
my wedding band,
my nails often bitten with boredom, sometimes nerves,
other times traces of clay or paint trapped beneath them—
and here my hands sing because they’ve tried to create.

 

Today I write about the muscle memory of your hands—
women’s hands.

 

The small labors:
braiding children’s hair,
buttoning winter coats,
tying scarves,
wringing a sponge after washing a sink full of dishes.

 

Applying a cold rag to a forehead
in hopes of bringing a fever down.

 

Hands holding a pen,
making fragile promises,
small affirmations
written to oneself
in hopes of seeing the world differently
or making a better one
for ourselves.

 

Hands holding a leash to walk a dog
or a child’s hand on the way to school.

 

Hands stirring pots, 

sprinkling salt,
a dash of pepper,
decorating birthday cakes,

incomplete without the secret ingredient—love.

 

Hands mapping the backs of those we love
during the rising and falling of sleep.

 

Hands counting vitamins,
medicines,
prayer beads,
wishing for : everyone - everything 

to be great
or, at the very least,
okay.

 

Hands holding other hands
when the world feels a little bit too much.

 

Our hands storm through cabinets and drawers
searching for lost things.

buttons,

container lids,
batteries,
photos,
glue,
glitter,
ribbons,
rubber bands,
and the thing we forgot we were looking for.

 

They plant flowers, 

lift groceries,
scrub tiles, 

porcelain,
and sneakers covered in mud.

 

Shine silverware,
change diapers,
change lanes,
dodge traffic,
roadblocks,
potholes,

 

turn keys when we
finally,
safely,
happily,
arrive home.

 

I see my own veins now—
rivers of memory,
chapped skin,
small scars reminding me
I’ve lived.

 

And I realize every word I wrote
about my mother
was practice

for this small understanding:

these are not
her hands
or my hands
but ours.

 

Every woman’s.

 

Every imperfection,
every wrinkle—
a record of what she tried to
mend,
make better,
hold onto.

What we learned to let go.

 

They say:
I was here.
I carried.
I gave. I gave. I gave.

 

Because that - 

that is what hands
were always meant to do.