Grandmother’s Hands: A Poem

These are grandmother’s hands
Cool as a new morning
Wrinkled with age
Full of kindness
Or the occasional sweet
Soft new flesh of old hands

I love the way they feel
So soft, like new
Not like my calluses and cuts
And full of summer heat

These are grandmother’s hands
But this is not grandmother
For she has been gone these six years and is not coming back
But this woman has hands like grandmother’s
And so I will hold them and remember grandmother’s hands.



Type this later, if I remember.

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