His Hands Served Him Well

Great-Grandpa would sometimes sit quietly.
At those moments, no one asked questions.
I thought looking at him was really neat.

I decided to break the silence and ask;
What is it you think,

when you stare at your hands,
your knees and sometimes even your feet?

He didn't even flinch, didn't move an inch.
He was pretty old and weak.
I waited for him to speak.
His gentle voice was clear as he said,
"Listen here...

Hold out your hands;
look very carefully,

turn them around,
open and close them."

Very slowly, I did as he said;
still trying to figure what was going on in his head.
After he was satisfied

that I'd studied them long enough,

he said some are gentle,

others are rough.

Your hands will serve you all your life.
They will take care of you all your years.

See my hands?
They used to be big, strong hands.
Now, they are old and wrinkled.
They are shriveled and have become weak.
Yet all my years, they have been my special tools.

With them I have reached out;
grabbed and embraced life.

I examined them first when I was born.
Told it was a cold and windy morn.
Mama held my hands in hers;
covered me with a blanket worn.

Soon I was a toddler learning more and more;
my hands would brace & catch my fall,
as I'd crash to the floor.
These same hands put food into my mouth;
and kept spaghetti from going south!

They played peek-a-boo so I could see!
They soon learned how to put clothes on me.

Mother taught me to fold my hands in prayer.
As I fell asleep they played with my hair.
Soon they tied my shoes and pulled on my boots.

My fingers were like strong roots.

They now guided the pen I used in school.
Flipped pages teaching of the golden rule.

Soon they put a ring upon the hand of my wife.

They were clumsy when I held my new born son’s life.

They wore a band that showed the world

I was married and loved someone dear.
My hands were strong and held on tight.
They dried the tears of my children.

They caressed the love of my life.

When it was time to go to war,

they held my rifle and they wiped my tears.

They were serving me well throughout my years.

They wrote the letters I sent home.

They trembled with fear when I felt so alone.

They shook when I put Mama and Papa in their graves.

Yes, my hands have served me well.

When I walked my daughter down the isle,
my hands were strong yet tender with love.
These hands gripped my wife's body

as she died in my arms.

They were lifeless and weak as I let her go.

My love was gone and my hands still ache so.

DeLayne Victoria Perry