H - Hands

My grandmother’s hands
are wrinkled now,
mapping her life in creases and lines,
the skin of caramel brown
fading and dotted with spots.
They still dance, though,
over the cutting board
and pan of frying fish,
but the tempo is slower,
motion less refined.
Soon she hands me the spider
to plate the fish when once
she would have resisted
my attempts to help.
My grandmother’s hands
are wrinkled now,
and I only just noticed.


Written for the A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo
© 2014 All Rights Reserved

H

 

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