When I was young, I was fascinated by my grandma's hands. They were signs of Old, boney, with veins and arteries like green and purple worms crawling all over them. I never held one. I never held my grandma's hand. Oh, that hurts. Surely I did as a toddler while learning to walk. But I have no memory of ever touching her in any way. When I stood next to Grandma, asking if it was okay to have a cookie, I would study her hand as it rested on the wooden arm of the chair. I could have picked it up, petted it, told her that I loved her. I didn't do that. We didn't do that.
Grandma's hands kept the pantry jar filled with cookies for us grandkids, probably a million of them baked over her lifetime. (I didn't like it when they had raisins.) Grandma's hands farmed the land, took care of sick people, raised seven boys, wired together anything that had fallen apart, and made mulberry pies, picking the berries from her trees and rolling out beautifully designed crusts.
My hands are becoming Grandma's. They have purple worms, and cracks— like the desert, parched for rain — create a random pattern. I could be embarrassed. I wonder if Grandma was.
My hands have given thousands of massages. They raised a girl and a boy. They garden and type. They've had a much easier life than grandma's hands. Still, that doesn't stop them from aging and reminding me of hers. And I realize that, now, now I can hold her hand.
