Friday, November 23, 2012

My Grandmother’s Hands






Sometimes,
As I watch myself pulling on socks,
I see my grandmother’s hands.

At other times,
Those fingers of a soft childhood
Stir soup or sign deliveries.

They turn up when
I reach out to pat a friend
Or in to nurse an ache.

She doesn’t manifest
In my face or my legs or hair
Not in the smile or eyes.

But most appropriately,
At the tips that write these words
To fill the gaps between our worlds.

3 comments:

  1. Nice! Our grandma had the softest hands, unlike mummy-daddy or me.

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