grandma's hands
have skin that is
tissue thin.
soft, like wax.
her veins are an oxidized green,
a busy road map of her life.
her nails are yellowed with age,
like an old news paper,
yet fortified
like strong will.
her palms are sewn with
deep-set riverbeds of good fortune,
and her fingertips swirl
gracefully,
yet whimsically;
a testament to her subtle humor.
She clasps my hand in hers
where I can admire
the time and beauty of her lived-in
hands.
The hands that mothered four children
that delicately formed matzo balls for her
hot soup.
That sewed my baby blanket as it fell apart,
and mastered massage.
The hands that folded quietly every morning
in somber meditation at sunrise.
These hands where mine were clasped
were well-loved.
We didn't earn them, but they were for us.
