Grandma’s Hands
Her hands are wrinkly, the skin looking thin and tight. On her left ring finger are two wedding bands. Hers, and his. After he passed away, she had his ring sized down and wore it next to hers. She often speaks about him, the love of her life. I never met him.
Psoriasis has painted her hands with dark spots and dry patches. Sometimes her knuckles swell and hurt, like today. She runs her right index finger on top of her left hand across the raised vein. Then she scratches next to the vein. Her fingernail catches on some dry skin. She peels a layer off and watches it fall to the ground.
She turns both hands palms up and palms down again and shakes her head.
“My hands are ugly.”
My first memory has Grandma’s hand in it. The one with the wedding bands. That hand, holding a cookie covered in powdered sugar, comes close to my face. I take a big bite.
The Linzen cookie
Leaves marmalade and sugar
On my face
I watch Grandma stop inspecting her hands and fold them in her lap.
I think they are beautiful.
Marie H. Anne, Mom, Twin Soul, Entrepreneur, Writer. Full of Gratitude. Boldly walking toward my dreams. I write memoirs, short stories, and auto-fiction about surviving violence and abuse and how amazing life has become despite and because of it.
