ScribbledSymmetry

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Hello. I am Clare and I am twenty three. I think that when you get that ambitious feeling in the pit of your stomach (you know, the one that makes you feel like you can do something brilliant and inspirational during your lifetime?) that's what it's all about. 
My Grandmother’s Hands

"You have your grandmother’s hands,"
She said - my child minder - while I clung to hers as we crossed the street.
I threw my hands deep inside my pockets, embarrassed.
Do my hands really look that old?
Folded and worn and lined like crumpled paper.

I didn’t understand
the strength those hands found in factory lines,
the courage it took to close the door on home,
and when she asked me “how much have you read today?”
she was handing me the education that she had not known.

When she said - my child minder -
"You have your grandmother’s hands,"
I should have shaken the hand of every person on my way
home, sharing just a trace of her radiance would’ve caused the town to glow.

But I didn’t understand
until her fingers folded into fists
Quietly fighting her final hours.

Even though the stories had escaped her mind,
those hands told them on every single line.
 
What I would give to hold them again.
I would read her palms like a best-selling novel,
Cover to cover, over and over.
When you find a story you love it doesn’t matter
if the pages get thin
because you learn the words by heart.
I wish I had learned hers by heart.

I understand now.
I have my grandmother’s hands,
marked beyond my years.
I understand that
every single line has a purpose
and I have so many stories to find.

(Source: scribbledsymmetry)

— 6 days ago with 3 notes
#poem  #grandparents  #hands  #personal