give me your hands

I am told I have your hands
grandma
they're so small
they give the illusion of delicacy
but you used to punch them into buckets of rice
to toughen your skin
your fingers ached from 15 hour days
sewing men's collars into shirts
Mine can only touch a black and white picture of you
when you were a volunteer nurse in Japan.
What can they possibly carry
by comparison to yours?

I am told I have your face
grandma
but do I have your tears as well?
The immense focus of your eyes
The laugh within them
fireworks of bursting colors
shattering the sky of a lined face

Do I have your rebelliousness...slipping candy
into the hands of grandchildren
who beg, always, for more piece.

I rested my head in your lap once
and cried from nightmares that seemed so real to me
and you sat
said nothing
and in saying nothing
said everything.
I wish now for the strength of your hands
the smile in your eyes
the peace in your heart

Give me your hands
Mine feel so empty
dropped open
useless buildings blown apart
the frames no pictures will fit into
empty, except for weight of these heavy thoughts.
Empty if not, for everything.
Empty but drawing together in this
my small prayer to you.

*The title alludes to a poem by Thich Nhat Hahn titled "Here are my hands"
and especially the excerpt below:
"Here are my hands.
Let me give them back to you,
but I pray
they will not be crushed again."

This is for my grandmother of whom I knew so little but imagined so much, loved so dearly and spent so little, but such quality time with when I was a child. She taught me by presence alone what it means to truly listen and to care.