Times my hands show me how old I really am - thick ropy veins, skin thin and wrinkled
Old scars from a nick here or there
from rose bushes or blackberry vines,
cuts from the paring knife when preparing meals,
one white patch from a cooking burn
lumpy and bumpy fingernails
that snap off too easily,
(I could blame that on the pandemic
with no access for a mani/pedi,
but no, they are as old as the rest of me,
and have been through as many battles)
when I think of these so called battles ~
they are not wars fought, but life lived.
kneading, stretching or punching the life into bread,
rolling balls of cookie dough between my palms,
squishing ground meat into meat balls,
wrapping both hands around a fresh warm cup of coffee
when the day has grown cold;
penning these words and thousands more
crocheting afghans that would not win any prizes
at the fair but kept me focused on the next stitch ~
gifts for the babies of many family and friends
pruning bushes and trees ~ feeling the strength of my grip
all the way to my shoulders.
fingers digging in spring soil feeling the richness of dirt.
picking peas in the garden and eating as many as possible.
tenderly holding a warm peach picked from a summer tree
holding it to my lips, feeling the juice sticky and sweet
on my hands, dripping all the way to my elbows.
I am grateful for my hands and
when I think of all these things,
my hands are no longer old and wrinkled
but silent diaries of my life,
sculpted while I live with them
gifts that caress me when I lotion my skin,
hide my eyes when I cry and
make silly faces to make babies and children laugh.
And best of all,
my hands have held my babies -
my sons, my grandson and my great-granddaughter.
“He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.”
~ Francis of Assisi
