Today I remembered a man
with the biggest hands
and an outdoor tan.
Doing the crossword with
the blunt stub of a pencil;
turning over cards as he
taught me Patience
or making toast for Nana
first thing in the morning.
Strong hands that once
forced the grate off a drain
at the side of the road
to rescue the ducklings
that had fallen in.
I remember a man
with the gentlest hands
that could hold a fish
perfectly still
while he eased out the hook
and set it free.
Hands that would tuck me
under his arm for a nap
or to help read the paper.
I remember the cleverest hands.
Hands that showed me how to
cast candles from church wax
and always fixed broken things.
Fingers that occasionally
danced across the organ keys
and painstakingly made
tomatoes grow enormous
and passionflower vines cling
rampant above the garden gate.
Grandad had the warmest hands,
that would button me into my coat
and take me on adventures
to the swimming pool
or across the fields to the pond.
Kind hands that could make
paper bags of peppermints
appear out of nowhere.
Ever since I lost him
my hand has felt
just a little bit empty.
Except sometimes
when I am lucky enough to dream
of Grandad reaching for
his shoes and cap and fishing rod
and me.
I am not a poet but I'm enough of a writer to put words down when they come to me and not argue too hard with myself about it.
For you, Grandad. I hope I've done you justice.
-
Say hello to me on Instagram at @writer_nerd or learn a little more about about me here.
Cover image used with the permission of Leonard Hudson.
Comments