Two weeks ago I looked at my hands and they looked old. The weight loss from the sickness had left behind dried wrinkled skinny veined bony hands. I didn’t like them. They were alien.
Then I looked again and saw my grandmother’s hands. My hands were no longer alien, they were her hands. The hands that made me apple pie. Helped me make bran muffins. The hands stretched out behind me ready to catch me. The hands that clapped for me. The hands that held my baby girl and held my hands.
My hands also looked like my dad’s. His hands that taught me how to use a tape measure and a screw driver. The hands that showed and taught me the different chess pieces.
Now my hands have filled in and smoothed out. I see my own hands.
I miss my grandmother’s and daddy’s hands.
I need to look more at my mom’s hands. The hands currently making homemade French fries for the family.