Her hands were worn like a favorite book, 
Every wrinkle is a story, every line a fairy tale. 
They danced through the dawn of decades,
Create magic from ordinary moments. 
Rough palms that soothed my fears 
Untiring as time passes and fingers twist, 
Braid hair, wipe away tears, 
Or fold paper boats for summer dreams. 
I watched them knead dough at dawn, 
Love pressed into every fold. 
Stories flowed from her fingertips 
While the chapatis rose like the morning sun. 
These hands that held strength in silence 
When life took its harshest blows. 
Never trembled, never fell. 
Teach me how grace flows. 
They painted my world with patience. 
Every gesture taught a lesson. 
“Life!” they whispered as they sewed up the wounds. 
“Healing is better when love seeps in.” 
Now when my hands reflect it 
And hold them in the fading light-an
Building homes in empty spaces, 
And building bridges over time. 
She never wrote poetry. 
But her hands have written much. 
About resilience, of gentle strength, 
About what love in action looks like. 
It's been years since we last held. 
The hands that held my world. 
But in all the gentle things I do, 
I find them leading. 
Sometimes when I bend, 
Or calm a falling child, 
I see her hand in mine, 
And I understand it all. 
The legacy she left behind was not silver, 
Or stories bound in gold. 
It was the art of touching life, 
And through hands that knew how to hold. 
Now I know why she laughed, 
Watch my little hands grow. 
She knew that she would live on, 
despite all that. 
All the tender things I have learned. 
So these hands of mine keep giving. 
Keep creating and keeping grace. 
In every gesture of love, 
I feel Grandma’s embrace. 
And when life seems too hard, 
I look at the palms of my hands, 
And I see the map she left for me to guide me home - 
Her love that lives inside of me.
@Supr7340