Hands

Her old-fashioned hands were passed on to me

She cupped them like a nest for me to feel

Then took mine in hers affectionately

Whispering “Our hands were made to heal.”

Promising this as Nana touched my eyes

Letting large fingers wander to my cheek

I wanted to ask “Will I be as wise?”

But stopped myself too embarrassed to speak.

She heard me without my daring to ask

And smiled, keeping the answer to herself

Then I put small hands to a given task

What I wanted to know would show itself

Since she did not teach me to be a fool

Hoping I would acquire her sixth sense.

Nana was clever, raised in the old school,

And would not put up with any nonsense.