Holding My Grandmother’s Hands

The last time I got a chance

To hold my Grandmother’s hands

Her fingers were wrinkled and

Pulled down with the weight of the world.

Her skin soft and homey

But strength in the center of her palms

Strength in her core with soft eyes and a smile.

These hands clenched together for warmth

In a house with no heat or warm water.

Lifted up in prayer and in fear

And a hope for a better tomorrow.\

A ring was placed on a ring finger by the age of 19

In a forbidden romance that seemed like a dream

Until one hand ripped itself away to walk out

And left my grandmother’s hands alone and cold

With three little souls that she now had to care for.

Hands that are left alone soon grow cold and harden

What was once soft and innocent grows callouses

The burdens and sadness of life showing along her palms and fingertips.

Hands that have pulled herself up from the depths of hell

Poverty with loneliness not always the sweetest

Juggling work, three children and bills

This life taking a toll on all of the family

But the results to the outside eye was never in perspective

The fault always landing in her hands

But she still did it.

A beautiful house that sits vividly in my memories

The yellow rose bush that she would fiddle with and trim

The Piano that she would occasionally tickle to make me laugh

The book shelf full of movies that her fingers would skim

For movie night with all of the cousins.

The fingers that she would use to rub my back

As we would fall asleep in her water bed

A true home that she managed to wrap her fingers around

And build with her  from the ground up

All from just her two, now frail, hands.