My Grandmother’s Hands

Covering a laughing mouth,
Shaped nails painted pale pink,
Encircling shoulders in a
tight squeeze,
The feel of love in every gentle touch
of paper-thin skin,
Frailty that speaks of strength
not her own,
Fingers once long and even
now bent and rigid,
aged with life’s long labor,
Eager to hold the hands of
another, gone before
and waiting,
Folded in prayer,
a testimony to life’s faith.
For my grandmother’s hands,
Father God,
Receive praise.