My grandmother

My grandmother had beautiful hands—

silky, touching my face, touching the

cake that she decorated, touching

my feelings when they needed to

be touched; but they were fragile

hands, like fine glasswork that

cracked over time but could not

be repaired, for it was too damaged.


They used to touch the sparkling keys

of her piano with delicate strength

and with a passion that unfurled the

hidden rhythms of her creative soul;

but that is long gone and locked

away from the person that stroked

my hair with her long lively fingers

and said in sadness, caught between

the words, that she loved me still.