Grandma’s Hands

Also read a poem on Phases of life

When grandma held me for the first time,

Her hands didn’t shake back then.

She dropped a tear when heard my first cry,

A cub was born in the lioness’ den.

I visited her after two long months,

Reached out to her wrinkled hands.

Dull, grey, nervous, earthy,

That held tenderness of a mother

And

Wariness of a father.

I remember,

Grandma used to put me to sleep at the corner of the bed,

Made a fort of pillows around me,

So I wouldn’t fall and yell.

She knitted beautiful sweaters of wool,

When powerfully skilled hands were her only tool.

Pretending to be oblivious of her inevitable aging,

She frowns charmingly, but her cheeks are aching.

As I felt the warmth of her precarious hands over my face,

I wiped my tear, that rolled down, in haste.

Then she hugged me tight like a little infant,

Her croaky voice said,

“I’ve missed you all the time we’ve been distant.”

She walked me down through a memories lane,

Where she talked about her contentment and vigorous pain.

I hope Amma lives a gargantuan life,

For a beloved mother she has been & a benevolent wife.

Also read a poem on Sound of silence

--

--

This blog is about poetry, social issues, empowerment and education.

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Harshita Solanki

This blog is about poetry, social issues, empowerment and education.