A View of Hands

(Today, my grandmother would've been 97 years old.  She was a strong, beautiful, loving, straightforward woman, my family's cornerstone.  This poem, one of my first, is a tribute to her.) 

Hands the color of

wrinkled brown paper bags,
the ones she'd fill with
dinners for anyone who
came her way.

Fish fry dimpled grin,

she taught you the joy of
a perfectly fried piece
of smelt,
of buffalo,
of bass,
while instilling in you

Pride.

Obedience.
Independence.
Intelligence.
Respect.
No one left her kitchen hungry.

Hands, though wrinkled

and streaked with blue,
carried the weight of
Her hard life.
Her sorrows.
Her joys.
Her family's struggle.
Those hands looked fragile
but rivaled the power of Atlas...
and she was never without nail polish.

Hands on rounded hips,

a limp making her sway
in a graceful circle,
she danced when the mood struck,
"In my day, we called this
the mess around!"
But you didn't dare mess around with her.
Retaining her strength until the end
looking at the world through
cataract colored glasses,
hands weathered to the bone,
she kept her fight.

"Baby,”
she said, feather light voice
delivered with the power of a
featherweight boxer,
clutching my hand like it was
the championship belt won by
first round knockout,
“don't you let
no man get over on you.
He got to eat,
he got to sleep,
he got to go to the bathroom.
If he ever do you wrong,
you pick your time."

Hands that wiped tears,

spread joy,
spanked a bad ass,
shared love,
your dear hands,
our Dear,
Mother Dear.

Your hands ruled

and are
the world.

(c) 2010 - Tracey Morris, All rights reserved

Happy birthday, Dear.  Loving and missing you, today and always.