Hands

Hands can tell you a lot about a person. They have always fascinated me. That sounds weird, I know. But they have. I think my fascination began when I was living with my grandmother for a summer. I didn’t know her very well, since my family hadn’t ever lived near her. Our visits were few and far between. Yet, I had been sent to live with her for the summer after she fell and broke her leg, leaving her in a cast from her hip to her toes. I was there to be her right-hand man if you will.

Grandma and I got along famously. We became the talk of the little town as folks would see my scrawny, 13-year-old self try to push grandma around in her wheelchair. I laughed more that summer than I had in a long time. Grandma and I became fast friends. I learned more about her that summer than I had ever known. I learned what her favorite cereal was, her favorite way to pass the time, and all about her mischievous side. (Shhh.. we won’t ever tell my mom about that…)

One afternoon, I sat watching Grandma embroider. She was masterful at it! She would make these beautiful, intricate flowers with different kinds of knots. It was meticulous and detailed work. I found out later, that it was called Brazilian embroidery. It’s a lost art these days. I noticed how “old” her hands looked. She was 66 at the time. Her skin looked worn and fragile- thin even. I distinctly remember thinking that her skin looked older than she seemed. Her spirits were young and joyful. At that moment, I realized that her hands were evidence of a life well-lived. She had worked hard as a rancher’s wife. I made a mental note to be like her someday. Work hard, but play harder.

Unfortunately, that summer didn’t last long enough. I went home, moved across the country with my family, and didn’t get to see her again until I went to college. I visited her as frequently as my schedule would allow. Her life had been difficult since that summer we spent together. Each time we got together, we’d share a bowl of cereal. It was such a silly thing to do! Yet, she taught me some of life’s most valuable lessons over those bowls of cereal. At the end of each visit, she’d hold my hand and walk me to the door. Her hands were always soft.

I continued to hold her hand as she struggled with failing health. I’d been married and had my first baby when I held her hand for the last time. Her hands were so fragile and tired. A few years after her passing, my young son sat next to me, holding my hand. He curiously asked me why my hands looked so “old”. Taken back, I looked at my hands. Compared to his little hands, mine certainly did look old! That was 20 years ago!

As my hands have continued to age, I can’t help but hope that they resemble hers. I don’t mind having “old” hands if it means I’ve lived a full life. A life of experiences; some having scarred my hands, others refining the lines and deepening the meaning in my life. Wrinkled, fragile, and thin hands are my favorite.