Cirila’s hands were soft but never delicate

They’d carried so much a very long way

Cirila’s hands held up her family 

Supporting them through all her days

Long ago these hands were young

But they’d always worked to give 

Her hands held all her siblings

Protecting them that they might live

These hands then held her lover’s 

They built a big family in La Buena Fe

 carried her children and their father 

Through his last breath; his dying day 

Cirila’s hands ran down her tummy

Another baby coming fast 

Her hands comforted her children

Wiped away tears; their every last

These hard working hands went back to it 

Cooking and cleaning all they could 

They skipped several of her meals 

To ensure her children never would 

Cirila’s hands, so beautiful

Waved to a missionary 

They fell in love, and grew their family 

Moved across the world after they married

Cirila’s hands sewed clothing 

For 6 daughters and 3 sons 

Her hands never stopped working 

Because they cared for everyone 

Hands of the daughter, mother, grandma

These hands held us all so tight 

On long walks to pick blackberries 

Or when we couldn’t sleep at night  

Cirila’s hands would ache sometimes

But she’d keep sewing, baking bread 

Kneading masa for tortillas 

Putting herself last instead

These hands folded in prayer

Asked to keep her family safe

She praised God, the Son, and Spirit

Even in struggle, kept her faith

Cirila’s hands would clap and dance

They would narrate her laugh

Braided our hair, rolled it up in curls 

Played with grand babies in the bath 

We all gently kissed those hands 

Held them and cried for what they’d seen

We owe Cirila’s hands our lives 

Hands of the Matriarch, La Reina, Queen