Grandma’s Hands

19/05/2020 - Iso Well-Being Compilation

 

I remember my grandma’s hands.

Wrinkly and covered in sun spots,

Worn but so full of love

Every time she touched my face.

 

When I was young, I used to copy her,

Clapping to call my grandpa in

When it was time for his dinner

Because he was a little deaf.

 

I used to hide under the table,

And reach out to grab her ankle

As she walked by me,

Even though she must have known I was there.

 

I remembered the record player

The seemed to just gather dust

Except at Christmas time

When we’d pull out the vinyl.

 

She had a pokey, little kitchen where

I’d help her make toasted sandwiches

In the old, green frying pan

Because she didn’t have a press.

 

I’d sit for hours in the lounge room

Reading all of her books,

Most of which are now my books

Because no one loved them like I did.

 

I remember her doing the gardening

And helping her rake the leaves

That fell into her yard

From the neighbour’s trees.

 

One year I got was playing with a tennis ball

And it disappeared under her house

So I went after it and

Got stung on the neck by three wasps.

 

I’d put on fashion shows

In my sports uniforms and costumes

To many oohs and aahs

And much proud smiling from her.

 

I remember my cousin (well, second cousin)

Playing soccer in her back yard,

Falling after miskicking the ball

And breaking his arm so it looked weird.

 

As a teenager, I’d ride my bike

From my school to her house

Just so I could sneak a biscuit

Before continuing on to school sport.

 

And when I was eighteen, mum said

That maybe we should check on her

So I drove us to her house

To see if she was alright.

 

I remember that her hand was cold.