Picture of my Daughter's and my Grandmother's hands. It will be three years on my daughter's birthday 12/26 that my grandmother had a massive stroke leaving her incapacitated, bedridden and with a feeding tube. My mother has been caring for her at home and it's been a long road, but a loving one. I took this pic because my daughter's hands are the most similar to my grandmothers and when she was born 21 yrs ago, my 72 yr old grandmother was her caregiver for the first four years of my daughter's life, as I was working, studing and divorcing. I have a lot to be thankful and greatful for, even though she no longer knows us or what's happening my memories of her make visiting possible without pain and regret.I found this poem online and thought it was fitting.
Her Hands
© Maggie Pittman
Her hands held me gently from the day I took my first breath.
Her hands helped to guide me as I took my first step.
Her hands held me close when the tears would start to fall.
Her hands were quick to show me that she would take care of it all.
Her hands were there to brush my hair, or straighten a wayward bow.
Her hands were often there to comfort the hurts that didn't always show.
Her hands helped hold the stars in place, and encouraged me to reach.
Her hands would clap and cheer and praise when I captured them at length.
Her hands would also push me, though not down or in harms way.
Her hands would punctuate the words, just do what I say.
Her hands sometimes had to discipline, to help bend this young tree.
Her hands would shape and mold me into all she knew I could be.
Her hands are now twisting with age and years of work,
Her hand now needs my gentle touch to rub away the hurt.
Her hands are more beautiful than anything can be.
Her hands are the reason I am me. Her Hands by Maggie Pittman @FamilyFriendPoems
3 comments:
What a beautiful post and poem.
It's funny... The older I get, the more my hands remind me of my mother's hands. My mom lived on a farm, raised and preserved tons of food each year and worked hard in a factory. Her hands were work roughened, but there wasn't much she couldn't do with them. While my hands don't work as hard as hers did, there are some similarities in the size and shape.
Thank you for making me think of this. Eyes may be the window to our souls, but it is the hands that tell our history.
What a beautiful photo and sentiment! Thanks for the lovely thoughts.
(Funny, for some reason I had thought your daughter was like... 4 or 5.... I must have her mixed up with someone else's daughter!)
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