Looking down at my hands,
'these are my grandmothers hands'
these hands of mine
hauntingly resembling hers-
are not pretty hands, like my mother's
but handsome, useful hands
smooth, long, polish free, practical fingers
made for use,
like my grandma's hands
that joyfully cut and sewed
that made little girls smile
and metamorphose into princess'.
These hands of hers,
quickly spun yards of yarn
into ponchos for the spring-
and before the bite of winter frost,
cushy quilted bathrobes arrived
wrapped in bright red Christmas paper.
Every garment, every stitch, every touch
with enormous patience and love
This was her way.
So, when I look down
at my hands today
so many, many years later...
I see a 'gift'-
These hands of mine, of hers
act as if they have a life of their own;
sewing, playing guitar, drawing, crocheting...
as though, through these fingers
her wisdom passing through me-
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem