See these hands of mine, dear grandchildren?
Not a pretty sight I agree.
Don’t be afraid to compare these ancient large tools of my body
Fear, not the sight of the blue ropes protruding through translucent paper-thin skin
For those very ropes carry a river of life to the tips of my finger and toes.
Take a moment, look at your child-like hands.
Plump, smooth, without blemish. Tiny fingers, tiny pink nails
Together we count – one two-three-four-five.
See these hands of mine, dear children
Together we laughed and loved
We stroked your baby soft skin held your tiny hands.
These hands performed many tasks: created words, music, food
Soothed the sick, nurtured the family.
Working tools attached to our bodily frame
Tools such as these grow weary with time.
See these hands of mine, Mum
I place them in yours, hold your hand softly, stroke the bent and twisted knuckles
Feel the crepe skin ripple along the surface like a permeant crease in fine lace
No longer ragged cuticles and broken nails the years of hard work long gone
Yet the dust you carefully removed each day for seventy years from your precious home
Returns each day, while dust motes play in the air looking for a place to stay.