Grandma's Hands

This poem is about my grandma.

Grandma's hands are
cracked and breaking
flour in a large, white bowl
the sound of the ring
belonging to her late AIDS ridden son
on her left hand playing
like chimes against the
rim of the glass bowl, soothes me

She smells of nostalgia and
the promise of a wonderful tomorrow
I wonder why I'll never ask what
scares her the most when she lies
awake dreaming at night or
what it's like to experience
true love followed by true loss

Grandma's hands are
crease like folded paper
pensive and shy, holding
yesterdays private messages in
the pockets of her blouse as
she waits

She speaks of being a
young girl with a much smaller stove
watching her mama's hands, her laugh,
her strength, learning her ways, but
never the loss that followed the
doctor visits, shaking heads, morphine shots,
the sound of an empty kitchen

Grandma's hands are
wrapped around the rolling pin
delicate and beautiful
the grace I've been searching for