Her hands, crippled with arthritis, clutch the flour sifter
and scoop just enough flour to knead the flaky pie crust.
Knobbed fingers, spotted with age,
lovingly stitch dresses for a little girl’s dolls.
Warm rough hands, callused from hours, hoeing in the garden,
hold a little girl’s hands in hers, as they walk to the piano lesson.
The little girl knows,
all is well, the world is safe and she is loved.
She is with grandma.

Her hands, crippled with arthritis,
scrape clumps of cookie dough onto the shiny sheet.
Knobbed fingers, spotted with age,
stitch a wedding gown for a not so little girl.
Warm rough hands, callused from years of putting tractor parts in bins,
hold a little boy’s hand in hers, as they walk to the lake.
The not so little girl knows,
all is well, the world is safe for her son,
he is with her mother.

Her hands, crippled with arthritis, clutch the flour sifter,
only at Thangsgiving, now.
Knobbed fingers clutch a pen, attempting to catch a piece of life,
and put it on paper.
These hands have known the touch of a woman’s hands,
which pass on the love that has gone before.
These hands have held the hands of children,
have dried their tears and her own.
She carries on, she is the daughter.