Senior Wisdom

Have you ever looked at your hands, grandma' said. Think about your hands, how they served you.
My old hands wrinkled, shriveled and weak were the tools I used the most to reach out, grab and embrace life.
They braced me and caught my falls. They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. They fold in thankful prayer. They tied my shoes. They held my husband and wiped my tears when he went off to war.
They were dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent.
They were uneasy and clumsy when I held my new born baby.
Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I married and loved someone special. They wrote letters. They trembled and shook when I buried my parents. They held children and grandchildren, consoled neighbors.
They shook in fists of anger when I did not understand.
They covered my face, combed my hair, cleaned the rest of my body.
They set flowers to grow, fed birds, cleaned house, cooked.
They hugged and caressed.
When not much more of the rest of my body works, my hands still hold me up, lay me down and fold in prayer.
My hands hold the story of my life in them.