I will never forget my grandmother sitting in her chair when I was younger, 

crocheting a new scarf. 

Her hands determined to finish. 

Her hands guiding the hook in and out between the stitches. 

She belonged to a knitting group at church. 

They would make scarves, blankets, etc. 

then donate them to underprivileged children. 

She didn’t crochet as much anymore. 

Those hands that crocheted those scarves did so much more 

Long before that, those hands hooked and unhooked a leg brace.

The leg brace was an uncomfortable and restrictive object she wore after surviving polio.

Even though they thought she couldn’t walk again, she did. 

Pulling herself up with her hands, 

her young and tiny body was able to walk again. 

Those hands that pulled herself up were the same hands that helped so many people.

 She worked in a hospital as a nurse during the war. 

Those hands cleaned, fed, and aided patients. 

She worked tirelessly long hours during the night shift,

Then she would come home and rest

Those hands that helped so many people were the same hands the held my popop’s

A veteran coming home from the war,

Meeting my grandmother,

My grandmother shaking his hand,

Vowing to love and to stand by him for as long as she lives,

She did.

She stood by him, watched him take one final breath,

In a way so did she.

She touched his hand one last time,

But I know that was not the last time,

Because because I touched her hand one last time too,

And I saw the extraordinary life she had,

Through those 91 year old hands.

And now they are both holding hands, forever.