An Autobiography in Hands
I look down at my
hands
Holding a pen,
Are these really mine?
The hands of a woman of years,
Freckled, tanned, spotted and lined
With age,
Short with no polish,
Not the red talons of my younger years.
I bedeck them with rings,
Big ones and small,
Always, even before when I
Wearing my wedding band,
Fourth finger left hand,
Always I bedecked my hands.
Hands before the lines, spots, freckles
Learned to knit at eight
Refined the curls and curves of cursive writing.
Hands that spent hours on floors
Of kitchens, bathrooms, camp cabins
Tossing up a ball, scooping up the jacks.
Hands that turned a jump rope,
Tightened roller skates with a key.
Hands that learned to row a canoe
Shoot an arrow
And tried, oh tried to hold a tennis racket,
A baseball bat or a golf club.
Hands that played card games, board games
They learned to type,
Hating to it so,
Until the advent of the computer.
Hands that played the piano,
At six, seven, eight,
Like Grandma Topkis
Then stopped, just stopped.
Hands that held the
handlebars
Of a two wheeler
Riding all around my neighborhood,
Then learning how to steer the car
Shift the gears,
Nowadays to pump the gas.
Hands that loved to write and did so
In fits and spurts,
As a child, then as a young mother
Stopping again,
Only to begin again at widowhood.
Hands that caressed the softness of
A baby’s fine hair
Immersed themselves in the icy cold
Of toilet water
To remove the poop from diapers.
Played finger games, to amuse
On car rides and in sad times.
Or shaking themselves at children
Behaving badly.
Hands that held trowels, hoes
Dug deep in the earth,
Pulling weeds,
planting bulbs
And more,
Creating the beauty of color and
The bounty of a kitchen garden.
Harvesting lilacs, peonies,
Tomatoes and blueberries
Hands that learned to cook,
With flavor and with zest,
The sauces of my neighbors,
The Italian world of Connecticut,
As well as the traditions,
The gefilte fish, the matzoh balls,
The chopped liver and brisket,
And my mother-in-law’s jello mold.
Now, candy, chocolate covered anything, with fingers to lick
the bowls.
Hands that learned to hold
An artist’s paintbrush,
Mix colors, but could never
Draw accurately.
That found in scissors and glue,
A new medium of collage.
Hands that learned to mush
In clay, to find within the muck,
A face, a shape, a meaning.
That loved to touch and fondle
Stones and beads
creating circlets for
the neck, wrist.
Hands that learned to don a tallit*
And read by pointing fingers
The calligraphy that is the Hebrew language
And touched with awe the parchment scroll
While voicing phrases taken to heart,
Coming of age
.
To my faith late in my life
Hands that loved to reach out
To caress a special man,
Put my smallness into his large palm
To feel the love that came through touch.
Hands that loved and even in death
Found a way to say goodbye,
Groping to accept the unacceptable,
Feeling, stroking, storing up
The feel of him,
Even after he had gone.
Hands that lay a stone, a coin
On a black headstone
And say, “I am here, but you are not”
Hands that cannot touch
What was,
And open to what might be.
May 2006
* tallit = Jewish prayer shawl
An Autobiography in Hands
By Suzanne Gallant
I look down at my
hands
Holding a pen,
Are these really mine?
The hands of a woman of years,
Freckled, tanned, spotted and lined
With age,
Short with no polish,
Not the red talons of my younger years.
I bedeck them with rings,
Big ones and small,
Always, even before when I
Wearing my wedding band,
Fourth finger left hand,
Always I bedecked my hands.
Hands before the lines, spots, freckles
Learned to knit at eight
Refined the curls and curves of cursive writing.
Hands that spent hours on floors
Of kitchens, bathrooms, camp cabins
Tossing up a ball, scooping up the jacks.
Hands that turned a jump rope,
Tightened roller skates with a key.
Hands that learned to row a canoe
Shoot an arrow
And tried, oh tried to hold a tennis racket,
A baseball bat or a golf club.
Hands that played card games, board games
They learned to type,
Hating to it so,
Until the advent of the computer.
Hands that played the piano,
At six, seven, eight,
Like Grandma Topkis
Then stopped, just stopped.
Hands that held the
handlebars
Of a two wheeler
Riding all around my neighborhood,
Then learning how to steer the car
Shift the gears,
Nowadays to pump the gas.
Hands that loved to write and did so
In fits and spurts,
As a child, then as a young mother
Stopping again,
Only to begin again at widowhood.
Hands that caressed the softness of
A baby’s fine hair
Immersed themselves in the icy cold
Of toilet water
To remove the poop from diapers.
Played finger games, to amuse
On car rides and in sad times.
Or shaking themselves at children
Behaving badly.
Hands that held trowels, hoes
Dug deep in the earth,
Pulling weeds,
planting bulbs
And more,
Creating the beauty of color and
The bounty of a kitchen garden.
Harvesting lilacs, peonies,
Tomatoes and blueberries
Hands that learned to cook,
With flavor and with zest,
The sauces of my neighbors,
The Italian world of Connecticut,
As well as the traditions,
The gefilte fish, the matzoh balls,
The chopped liver and brisket,
And my mother-in-law’s jello mold.
Now, candy, chocolate covered anything, with fingers to lick
the bowls.
Hands that learned to hold
An artist’s paintbrush,
Mix colors, but could never
Draw accurately.
That found in scissors and glue,
A new medium of collage.
Hands that learned to mush
In clay, to find within the muck,
A face, a shape, a meaning.
That loved to touch and fondle
Stones and beads
creating circlets for
the neck, wrist.
Hands that learned to don a tallit*
And read by pointing fingers
The calligraphy that is the Hebrew language
And touched with awe the parchment scroll
While voicing phrases taken to heart,
Coming of age
.
To my faith late in my life
Hands that loved to reach out
To caress a special man,
Put my smallness into his large palm
To feel the love that came through touch.
Hands that loved and even in death
Found a way to say goodbye,
Groping to accept the unacceptable,
Feeling, stroking, storing up
The feel of him,
Even after he had gone.
Hands that lay a stone, a coin
On a black headstone
And say, “I am here, but you are not”
Hands that cannot touch
What was,
And open to what might be.
May 2006
* tallit = Jewish prayer shawl
An Autobiography in Hands
By Suzanne Gallant
I look down at my
hands
Holding a pen,
Are these really mine?
The hands of a woman of years,
Freckled, tanned, spotted and lined
With age,
Short with no polish,
Not the red talons of my younger years.
I bedeck them with rings,
Big ones and small,
Always, even before when I
Wearing my wedding band,
Fourth finger left hand,
Always I bedecked my hands.
Hands before the lines, spots, freckles
Learned to knit at eight
Refined the curls and curves of cursive writing.
Hands that spent hours on floors
Of kitchens, bathrooms, camp cabins
Tossing up a ball, scooping up the jacks.
Hands that turned a jump rope,
Tightened roller skates with a key.
Hands that learned to row a canoe
Shoot an arrow
And tried, oh tried to hold a tennis racket,
A baseball bat or a golf club.
Hands that played card games, board games
They learned to type,
Hating to it so,
Until the advent of the computer.
Hands that played the piano,
At six, seven, eight,
Like Grandma Topkis
Then stopped, just stopped.
Hands that held the
handlebars
Of a two wheeler
Riding all around my neighborhood,
Then learning how to steer the car
Shift the gears,
Nowadays to pump the gas.
Hands that loved to write and did so
In fits and spurts,
As a child, then as a young mother
Stopping again,
Only to begin again at widowhood.
Hands that caressed the softness of
A baby’s fine hair
Immersed themselves in the icy cold
Of toilet water
To remove the poop from diapers.
Played finger games, to amuse
On car rides and in sad times.
Or shaking themselves at children
Behaving badly.
Hands that held trowels, hoes
Dug deep in the earth,
Pulling weeds,
planting bulbs
And more,
Creating the beauty of color and
The bounty of a kitchen garden.
Harvesting lilacs, peonies,
Tomatoes and blueberries
Hands that learned to cook,
With flavor and with zest,
The sauces of my neighbors,
The Italian world of Connecticut,
As well as the traditions,
The gefilte fish, the matzoh balls,
The chopped liver and brisket,
And my mother-in-law’s jello mold.
Now, candy, chocolate covered anything, with fingers to lick
the bowls.
Hands that learned to hold
An artist’s paintbrush,
Mix colors, but could never
Draw accurately.
That found in scissors and glue,
A new medium of collage.
Hands that learned to mush
In clay, to find within the muck,
A face, a shape, a meaning.
That loved to touch and fondle
Stones and beads
creating circlets for
the neck, wrist.
Hands that learned to don a tallit*
And read by pointing fingers
The calligraphy that is the Hebrew language
And touched with awe the parchment scroll
While voicing phrases taken to heart,
Coming of age
.
To my faith late in my life
Hands that loved to reach out
To caress a special man,
Put my smallness into his large palm
To feel the love that came through touch.
Hands that loved and even in death
Found a way to say goodbye,
Groping to accept the unacceptable,
Feeling, stroking, storing up
The feel of him,
Even after he had gone.
Hands that lay a stone, a coin
On a black headstone
And say, “I am here, but you are not”
Hands that cannot touch
What was,
And open to what might be.
May 2006
* tallit = Jewish prayer shawl
