My Grandmother’s Hands

My grandmother’s hands

Cool like water,

Worn thin with time and

wrinkled with wisdom.

My grandmother’s hands

cradled mine,

Skin smooth and fresh like butter,

Free of burden,

Wide open

To the world.

A tiny sailor hat

Perched on thin

Golden locks

Shone in her eyes

Between bittersweet nests.

A sad smile

That spoke of heartbreak and

Hope,

A lifetime

of stories.

The lessons

She needed me to hear

Distilled

into a glance and

Cupped hands and

a few

Choice

Words.

I don’t remember what she told me,

But I remember the way she made me feel.

Infinity shoved into seconds,

Sensations

burned into synapses.

A body

Too frail

To contain its strength.

A white bracelet too loose

For the bone

Thin

Wrist.

A room

Too stale

To hold in

Her Great Truths.

I don’t remember what she told me.

But I remember hearing,

Between words,

The spaces colored in

With life and death,

gratitude and envy,

Longing and acceptance,

Hello

And

Goodbye.

I felt her life,

And her reluctant

realizations,

As if she

Was filling the gaps

In our time

By writing

Memories

On dust.

As if

The more she could color in

The more that

Would cling

to me.

So that my life

Might have

A little

More

color.

I don’t remember what she told me.

But I remember,

That first and

last memory

Of my grandmother,

With her hands,

And her eyes,

She told me

To live.