Grandpa's hands are strong and steady.
They are simple yet so complex.
They do not scold or correct.
They hold me when I cry.
They carry me when I am tired.
They teach me how to work.
Grandpa's hands are now weak.
They show the stories of age.
They no longer work long days.
They now hold the hands of the ones he loves.
They teach me how to love.
They grow weaker each day.
Grandpa's hands are folded at peace.
They, for the first time, are still.
They now hold a memory in my heart.
They remind me of the good times and bad.
One day his hands will be in mine again.