As confinement continued, I filled my days with curiosity
Which took me to cleaning cupboards and closets
Where I found treasures forgotten and time wore down
Seasonal cards and small momento’s of travels past
A CD of conversation with my Granny, then, in her 90’s
A quiver in her tone and determination still
Her strong British accent all through her years
I listened with focus and unnoticed streaming tears
I miss her so much
Looking at her picture on the bureau,
Recollecting her stories, I notice her hands
Thin dermis covering blue veins and crooked fingers
Oh what those hands have done!
Pulled water from the well, and plucked chickens
Sewn many an outfit for male and female
Cheerful curtains that brightened a dull room
Chopped firewood and mended fish nets
Shook her baby over steam all night
When the island doctor was nowhere in sight
She taught me the garden of flowers galore
English sweet peas, Icelandic poppies, gladiolas too
Hollyhocks and pansies, Forget-Me-Nots blue
My Granny’s hands are what I see now
When I gaze at my own. What an honour to age
Stories to tell my grandchildren. Of what I know
What I’ve done; and love them just as they are.

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