Your Hand in Mine

The following poem was written after my last visit with my grandmother.

Your Hand in Mine

 What I will remember if this is the last

    Is not any words exchanged

            Pleasantries, talk of trips to places you will never visit,

            Future plans, babies to be born

It will be the feeling of your hand in mine—warm and soft, yet strong

A hand I have held so many times, but this time feels different

A moment

Memories arising like the last whisps of a campfire’s smoke

Hands that I traced the veins in as a young girl sitting in the crook of your lap

Useful, purposeful, ready for action

     Nails clean, clear, and neatly cut,

Me mesmerized by the life, the blood pumping through the pale skin

Shielded from the sun as only a ginger knows how to keep the penetrating rays at bay

Hands that flew across the piano keys light as feathers

Hands that kneaded dough with force and power

Hands that gripped a tennis racquet and handbells and garden tools and wooden spoons

Hands that pushed me as I soared high over the backyard gully in the old tree swing

Hands that washed my hair in a tub of Mr. Bubbles

Hands that put out food for the cadre of birds at your window

Hands that made grandchildren Christmas stockings

Hands that could grab a hot pan straight out of the oven

Hands that held the newspaper as you checked the Cardinals’ scores after Papa died

             And the weather in each city where family lived

Hands that held my father, me, my siblings, and my sons

Hands that passed the communion tray to me in church

Hands that motioned for just a half cup more of coffee

Hands that offered hospitality and welcome and friendship and prayers to neighbors,

friends, family, and the random stranger that would find their way into your orbit

I remember the first time I saw my own veins rise in my hand

And I thought—will I ever have a child in my lap tracing their path with a small finger?

There is a point in our lives when we switch from more hellos to more goodbyes

Dying is a thousand little deaths of all the things your hands will no longer do

Yes, on the last day, it will not be the words I remember

It will be the feeling of your hand in mine.