Bruce Black – ‘My Grandmother’s Hands’

My grandmother used her hands to tend

the geraniums with their bright red blossoms

that sat in terracotta pots on the windowsill of her

living room overlooking the corner of East 243rd Street

and White Plains Avenue in the Bronx.

I would sit on the sofa beside her on Sunday

afternoons as she gazed at the flowers

blossoming by the windows,

flowers that Dad had brought her

as gifts for Mother’s Day,

and I always wondered at the way

she would sit so still, so quietly,

lost in memories, I suspected,

that she could no longer share because of

what they said was Alzheimer’s.

She held her hands clasped together,

hands that once baked birthday cakes

for Dad when he was a boy,

yellow cake with chocolate icing,

his favorite. 

Hands that had shaped matzah balls for

our family’s Seders, and we called them

sinkers because of the way they sank to

the bottom of the soup bowls, almost

always hard as rocks.

Hands that once knit heavy wool sweaters

to keep us warm like the sweaters she wore

as a girl growing up in St Petersburg

before sailing across the north Atlantic

to Boston.

Hands that sat in her lap, motionless

now, their work of a lifetime done,

waiting patiently, without complaint,

for the days to pass,

for the geraniums to bloom,

for the kisses Dad and I would plant

on her cheek

each time we visited,

for the touch of my hand in hers

when I sat beside her on the sofa.

On each visit I kept hoping today

would be different, that she’d know

who I was when she saw me come into

the living room, that she’d reach out with

her hands like she used to and hold

my face between her hands

as if it was a precious diamond,

a rare jewel,

instead of keeping her hands

folded in her lap

waiting, motionless, for the aide

to hand her another glass of water,

or to take her hand and lead her

back to the bedroom for

an afternoon nap.