Poem on Grandma's hands

Grandma’s Hands

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When grandma held me for the first time,

Her hands didn’t shake back then.

She dropped a tear when heard my first cry,

A cub was born in the lioness’ den.

 

I visited her after two long months,

Reached out to her wrinkled hands.

 

Dull, grey, nervous, earthy,

That held tenderness of a mother       

And

Wariness of a father.

 

I remember,

Grandma used to put me to sleep at the corner of the bed,

Made a fort of pillows around me,

So I wouldn’t fall and yell.

 

She knitted beautiful sweaters of wool,

When powerfully skilled hands were her only tool.

 

Pretending to be oblivious of her inevitable aging,

She frowns charmingly, but her cheeks are aching.

 

As I felt the warmth of her precarious hands over my face,

I wiped my tear, that rolled down, in haste.

 

Then she hugged me tight like a little infant,

Her croaky voice said,

“I’ve missed you all the time we’ve been distant.”

She walked me down through a memories lane,

Where she talked about her contentment and vigorous pain.

 

I hope Amma  lives a gargantuan life,

For a beloved mother she has been & a benevolent wife.