These Hands Tell storeis

August 18, 2012
By Lauren Salis SILVER, Guelph, Other
Lauren Salis SILVER, Guelph, Other
7 articles 0 photos 2 comments

We sat on the porch
My grandfather and I
As the crickets sand their sweet lullaby

The sun was setting,
Leaving the sky the colour of the pink lemonade in our sweating glasses

The porch swing creaked
In the evening breeze
That rolled through the country
Rustling the trees

We sat on the porch
My grandfather and I
As the sound of his voice harmonized with the chirping birds

I lent him my ear and he lent me his story

His words took me on a journey
Over oceans and deserts,
Through triumphs and sorrows,
Meadows, memories

We sat on the porch
My grandfather and I
As the blazing orange sun disappeared over the swaying pine trees

As he pulls back the curtain
As the levee breaks
As the tales of adventure lead me through the corridors of his mind

I glance at his hands

The worn, creased fingers
Tough like the bark of a tree
Yet soft, gentle

These are the hands that twirled and swung my grandmother on the dance floor

That healed the wounds of soldiers fighting for the freedom of their country

That steered the handlebars of his little girl’s first bicycle

That held that little girl through scraped knees, heartbreaks, and the death of her mother

That lay a delicate crimson rose on my grandmother’s grave every year on their anniversary

The hands that sit across from me in the fading dapple light

We sat on the porch
My grandfather and I
As the night’s crisp breath lingers on my neck

The sweet timeworn gentleman sits next to me
Fragile with age
He chokes on his words
Crystal tears run along his wrinkled cheeks
I take his fingers in mine

He does not need to continue,
For I’ve already known

These hands tell stories
All their own

The author's comments:
This poem was inspired by a photo I saw on Flickr of an old basket weaver's hands, a photo of the same title.

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