Hands (For Big Nana)

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 Grandma touched my eyes,

Letting large fingers wander to my cheek.

I wanted to ask if I could be so wise,

But stopped myself before I dared 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,

And saw in me, the way of second sense.

Grandma was clever, raised in the old school,

And never put up with any nonsense.