Bits & Pieces Index

Hands

Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. She didn't move, she just sat with her head down staring at her hands.

When I sat down beside her she didn't acknowledge my presence and I wondered if she was OK. Finally, not really wanting to disturb her  but wanting to check on her at the same time, I asked her if she was OK.

She raised her head and looked at me and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking," she said in a clear strong voice.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, Grandma, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK," I explained to her.

"Have you ever looked at your hands?" she  asked. "I mean really  looked at your hands?" I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had  never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point she was making.

Grandma smiled and said "Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you throughout your years.

These hands, though wrinkled, shrivelled and weak have been the tools  I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life. They caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. They tied my shoes and pulled on my  boots.

They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and  cleansed the rest of my body.

They held my husband and wiped my tears when he went off to war.

They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son and decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was  married and loved someone special.

They wrote my letters to him and trembled and shook when I buried him and my parents. They have held my children and my grandchildren, consoled neighbours, and shaken in fists of anger when I didn't
understand.

They have been dirty, scraped, sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well these hands hold me up and lay me down.

These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of life."

I will never look at my hands the same again. When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and husband I think of Grandma.

Author Unknown