Twas Brillig

Hi everyone. My name is Karlene and I live over on Inksplasher. [link: www.inksplasher.blogspot.com] I’ve been blogging since January 2006. I met Brillig at a blogger luncheon several months ago. I guess that makes me one of the few who’ve actually seen Brillig’s gorgeous eyes and eyebrows in person. Brillig is just as fun and entertaining in real life as she is here on her blog. I’m excited to have the wonderful opportunity to be a guest blogger here—my only claim to fame.

A little history about me: I’ve worked as a writer, editor and publisher at various times in my life. Now I’m taking it a little easy and doing freelance copy editing and book design, layout and other pre-press work. I also blog a lot. The coolest thing in my life, however, is that I became a grandmother last year. Grandson #1 just turned 1 year old; grandson #2 is almost 7 months. I’ll be gaining a granddaughter in August when my son marries a sweet girl with a 2 year old. I do “Grandma Day” once a week when I tend my two grandsons all day. It’s tiring, but lots of fun. It’s with this in mind that I wrote the following post.

Grandmother’s Hands

I don’t know why the image of your hands comes to me this morning, but I see them, folded together, resting on your kitchen table, right-hand fingers embracing the left hand, slowly rubbing, stroking, kneading. Do they hurt? Is it arthritis, that dull cold ache of bone against bone that I sometimes feel in my own hands?

You open your hands, stretching your fingers out flat, pressing them onto the tablecloth. I can see little ribbed drawings of apples and oranges playing peek-a-boo with me between your fingers—the pattern of the plastic tablecloth.

Your hands are bare but for the single, thin, gold band on your left hand—the symbol of your love for Pappaw, your commitment to the eternal family, your devotion to the family the two of you created that grew from two, to six, to sixteen, to thirty-seven and 7/8ths.

Are you proud of that? As you look down at us from heaven, are you pleased with who we have become, who we are becoming? Or does your heart ache over our weaknesses?

Your nails are short, but not too short. They stop just at the tips of your fingers, a thin white crescent at both top and bottom. They are smooth but unpolished, unbuffed. No pretensions here. They are working hands, practical hands.

Your hands are creamy tan, covered with the darker spots of age. Liver spots, some call them. I prefer to think of them as medals of honor, hard won through life’s trials, markers of wisdom gained, experiences shared; the many wrinkles that criss-cross the back of your hand and gather in clumps around your knuckles are ribbons awarded for effort and endurance.

Your hands reach across the table, across the worlds between us, and clasp mine. They are softened by love and warm with courage and strength. Your hands give mine a squeeze that says everything—how much you love me, how you’re there for me even when you’re so far away, how you’re proud of me no matter what I’ve done, or do. You give my hands another squeeze and a pat, glad that I understand. Your hands grip my fingers tight, as if by force of will alone you could push all the wisdom and knowledge and experience from your hands into mine, to make them stronger, warmer, softer.

The pressure of your hands begins to lessen as they gradually fade away. My hands are all alone now, folded together on your table, right-hand fingers embracing the left, stroking, kneading, as if to convince myself that it is okay, that my hands are up to the task ahead, whatever it may be.

My hands are not as bare as hers. I wear two rings, symbols of my family—all nine and 7/8ths of them—and my faith in the God she taught me to love. My nails are short, but not too short. They fit well on practical hands, working hands. I have a few wrinkles and medals of honor of my own. A few scars, each with a memory of experience archived, lessons learned.

My grandson cries out as he wakes from his nap. I spread my hands out on the table, fingers wide as I push myself up to go get him. I watch my hands reach into his crib, pick him up, gently stroke the damp hair away from his face. His smooth and chubby hands reach up to grab my older spotted ones. He chews my knuckle. I feel the wrinkles move and the loose skin provides padding between his gums, soothing the pain of teething.

This is not a conscious act on my part, nor his. It is automatic, instinctual, bonding the hearts between the generations. I am glad for the hands I have, so much like my grandmother’s, yet still my own. I am proud of each spot, each scar, each wrinkle.

I look at my grandson, still biting at my fingers. He smiles at me and in the moment of that smile I know that I will always love him, always be proud of him despite the challenges and weaknesses he might face in his future. That is a grandmother’s job. That is my job—to reach across the table and give his hands a squeeze and a pat as they earn the scars and the spots and the wrinkles that will define him, that are his very own.

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