It is in my grandma's hands,
her blue veins pushing against transparent skin,
wrapping over knotty knuckles,
running like tree branches over calloused palms.
To me, my grandma's hands are the life and the afterlife--
all the struggles, hard work, and joys--
eternity embodied in a woman's touch.
Grandma's hands pulled the weeds,
planted the flowers,
made the home where nine children grew up safely,
knowing they were loved
in hand-sewn clothes
and socks repaired with the swish of the darning needle.
My grandma's hands played ball and Checkers and Monopoly,
Made clothespin dolls, colored pictures,
Crocheted blankets for new babies,
and built sandcastles where grandchildren could play out their dreams.
My grandma's hands caressed a sick child's back,
Soothing her to sleep
and changed endless diapers, no matter how messy.
then washed them and hung them out to dry.
In my grandma's hands was unconditional love,
devotion,
hard work
and all its rewards.
And even though Grandma is gone...
She lives.
Her blood courses through my veins
and my father's and my cousins'
and all my aunts' and uncles',
and now through my own children's veins.
And all the lessons she taught us
Are with us still.
We see her when we pat the new baby's back
And swaddle him tight before laying him down to sleep.
Shhh...Hush little baby.
Grandma is here.
by Kimberley Fulton Wendel
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