Looking down at my hands, <br />'these are my grandmothers hands' <br />these hands of mine <br />hauntingly resembling hers- <br />are not pretty hands, like my mother's <br />but handsome, useful hands <br />smooth, long, polish free, practical fingers <br />made for use, <br />like my grandma's hands <br />that joyfully cut and sewed <br />birthday dresses <br />that made little girls smile <br />and metamorphose into princess'. <br />These hands of hers, <br />quickly spun yards of yarn <br />into ponchos for the spring- <br />and before the bite of winter frost, <br />cushy quilted bathrobes arrived <br />wrapped in bright red Christmas paper. <br />Every garment, every stitch, every touch <br />integrated <br />with enormous patience and love <br />This was her way. <br />So, when I look down <br />at my hands today <br />so many, many years later... <br />I see a 'gift'- <br />These hands of mine, of hers <br />act as if they have a life of their own; <br />sewing, playing guitar, drawing, crocheting... <br />as though, through these fingers <br />I witness <br />her wisdom passing through me- <br /> <br /> <br />Copyright ©2004<br /><br />Adryan Rotica<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-grandmother-s-hands/
