Her Hands Are a Piece of Home

Her hands, small with wrinkles that
crawl up her arms and into her smile,
have so many stories to tell.

They are shaking, yes,
but they are beautiful.

They have embraced
child
after child— four of her own, eight of theirs, one great-grand on the way. Even strangers have entrusted their loved ones to her care.

Her hands taught students
how to correctly hold their pencils
and loop cursive words.
They directed voices—
alto, tenor, soprano—
and have danced on the piano
for seventy years.

Her hands have passed
the salt at numerous
family dinners,
twisted and fried
the homemade pretzels
we barely got rolled out,
and shared in decorating
Christmas cookies last year—
blue stockings and snowmen, yellow Santas.
Kindergartners could have outdone us.

Her hands have shuffled cards
for endless rounds
of cribbage and Phase 10.
They have put hundreds
of puzzles together.
Break them all up; form the pictures again.
Once is never enough for me.

Her hands have reached for those
learning to stand and walk.
And they reach for me
to let me know I’m not alone
as I walk farther into adulthood.

Her hands have clapped out syllables
to teach others how to read and talk.
And they proudly clap for me
with every goal I accomplish.

Her hands have wiped tears away
from playtime bumps and bruises.
And they wipe mine away
when life bruises my heart.

Her hands, they’re small.
Her hands, they shake.
Her hands, they’re wrinkled.

Oh, but her hands—
they’re beautiful;
Oh, her hands—
they’re a piece
of home.