Old Hands Poem by Bill Galvin

Holding Mom's hand, as I say goodnight
In a now too familiar hospital setting,
I see behind the thin translucent skin,
The hands that carried and cleaned and cared;
And cooked and Scrabbled and held reins of horses;
And smeared Vicks on chests and jelly on sandwiches;
And, in silence, adapted and mended family fabric,
And closed the doors and shut the blinds,
Yet steadily worked in a career to keep us all together.

I see the hands of her mom, my grandmother;
Hands that baked and bathed and sewed;
And climbed ladders and hammered nails;
And pushed lawn mowers and baby carriages;
And picked blackberries and made hot lemon water;
And collected sea glass and storm-freed lobster traps;
And encouraged all, in her own way, toward awareness,
Common sense, and self-reliance,
Until muffled by the fog of dementia.

I see the cold old hands of my father,
So uncomfortable in their family role;
Anxious, and ever rattling change in his pocket;
Hands that pointed and threatened and diminished,
And struck, then met mine one fateful teenaged night;
That waved generously to friends on the city streets,
But belied his fear of being seen fighting demons;
Hands that waved off deathbed offers of closeness;
Hands that were softer than he wanted us to think.

And I see the hands of my deceased wife,
After ALS had withered and aged her prematurely;
Hands that caressed and warmed and loved;
And shouldered packs and laced trail boots;
And closed drawstrings and pounded tent stakes;
And wrote poems and signed letters to friends;
And gardened and weeded and prayed and accepted;
Hands, left empty, that nurtured children not her own;
Then, they showed us all a way to a dignified goodbye.

And as another ferry boat slows to approach the pier,
For one of its last trips of the northern season,
A passenger's eyes will fix upon the distant shore coming near,
And realize that winter will soon be having its way…
And all hands will surely be docking one last day.

September 2016