Her Hands…

I’m going through a bit of transition these days with the nearing completion of my PhD. Given that the whole nature of transition is to move from one present to another, I’ve been trying to discern what that new present might look like. I often do that by looking back at the past. For whatever reason, is seems like the better handle I have on where I’ve come from, the better handle I can get on where I’m going. At any rate, I was going through some old journals & came across a poem I wrote in January, 1980 – Hands. It’s about my grandmother, Cora Dunnam.

 

Cora Eliza Dunnam

Grandma Corie

Co-Bell

Wrinkled hands

grasp my own

squeezing her message of love.

So wrinkled,

the skin

standing up like a bridge

when pinched lightly

by a small child

engrossed in the game

that is being played

on the bridges.

But soft, those hands,

not the softness of youth

but the softness of age,

like my favorite shoe

whose leather is pliant

and wraps comfortably

around my foot.

The softness is not weakness,

for the hands are strong,

strengthened by years

of toting water

to the shotgun house

from the spring

at the bottom of the hill.

Hands,

strong enough

to tote the water,

yet tender enough

to cuddle

the tiny, new baby,

born not three hours

after the last buckets

had been brought up

from the spring.

Old hands now,

but still wearing

the ring

given by the young hand

of a beloved shipbuilder.

Old hands,

still loving that shipbuilder,

and five children,

and eleven grandchildren,

and ten great-grandchildren.

Old hands,

yellowed with age

like the pages

of the bible they hold,

smelling of snuff

and kitchen,

gently stroking

the smooth, leather cover,

offering a prayer,

the words wrinkled with use

yet soft and tender,

like the hands.

…………………….

My grandmother’s hands shaped me & that’s important to me as I negotiate this time of transition. Who’s hands have shaped you? As you look to the future, who is being shaped by your hands?