Gram's hands

For all the photos that I have amassed, one that I don't have is of my Gram's hands. I wish I'd had the foresight to know how important it would be to capture tiny details back then, when the opportunity still existed. Time is a cruel teacher though. We are often granted the wisdom of a lesson only after some chances have passed, and while we can carry this knowledge forward with us, hopefully using what we've learned, we cannot apply these lessons retroactively.

It has been ten years since my sweet Gram moved from this world to the next. A whole decade without this wonderful lady, whom I loved dearly.

One of the characteristics I loved most about her was her hands. By the time I knew my Gram, she was no longer a young woman. Her hands were wrinkled. There were age spots. Their youth had long since given way to the slightly gnarled look of years gone by.Those hands had worked hard: as a housewife and in the gardens, raising babies (and then grandbabies) and growing vegetation alike. But I will swear to you, to this day, that those hands were pure magic.

They rolled out the most delicious pie crust ever to grace taste buds, fingertips pressing the dough into the dish, leaving barely visible concave ovals behind: the symbols of love expressed in feeding her family.

They could make any green thing grow--and grow abundantly! Flowers blossomed. Vegetables flourished. Fruit trees produced until their branches hung low to the ground. And those same fingers could coax life back into wilted leaves or what appeared to be a dead, dry stick.

Those hands harvested the fruits of the garden and turned them into meals, into canned goods, into jams.

They took the walls of a house and made them into the warmth of home. Flowers were arranged and seasonal decorations came out of slightly dusty boxes year after year. And they tirelessly cleaned and tidied in the wake of a thriving family.

They worked hard, scrubbing laundry and hanging it out to dry, no matter the weather. They ironed. They mended. They folded. They hung up.

Those hands rested with questioning concern on warm foreheads, stroked the feverish heads of children, rubbed the backs of the brokenhearted. Somehow, they were always as warm or as cool as they needed to be. And they always *always* brought comfort.

When I was a small girl--and a not-so-small girl--I would sit beside Gram on the couch to watch tv or to visit. She would take my hand in hers. She would pat my hand or squeeze it, in a gentle but firm one-two-three pattern (I love you), and I would respond in turn. I remember how, despite their labors and the abuse of years, those hands were never too tired, and they were never dry or rough. Though her knuckles showed the bony appearance of age, the undersides of her fingers were rounded, plump and soft.

When I miss my Gram, her hands often spring to mind. I can bring their memory to the surface of my thoughts, but I always think "If I had a photo of them to look at and remember..." It wouldn't bring her back, but I would have that visual reminder, one I could share that would bring my words to life in color. You just don't realize the powerful treasure that some pixels printed on paper can be...

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