I've Got to Hand it to You

 

 

Sometimes I get impatient.  With my hands. 
My fingers grow older.  More knobby.  More stiff.

I'd like them to work the same as they always have.

But one or two won't quite bend the same as before.

Sometimes they ache and feel tight. 

That irritates me.  They've always done what I wanted them to.

Not anymore. 

Now they demand attention.

I guess that's only fair. 

They've never complained, all these years.

Sewing.  Darning.  Crafting.

Writing.  I mean the old-fashioned kind where you actually hold a pen or pencil

 in your hand -

 letters, Christmas cards, notes for class at school, chalkboards full of lessons,

love notes,

lunchbox notes to little boys, 

grading papers and filling out report cards.

Cooking...stirring, peeling, grating, cutting.

Cleaning. Ugh.

Scrubbing, washing, rinsing, polishing.

Painting walls, pulling off wallpaper,

planting flowers and pulling weeds.

Grasping ski poles for dear life.

 

So, thank you, old hands. 
You've worked hard. 

You still haven't given out on me.

Thank you

for caressing soft sweet faces and

little fingers and toes,

for cradling and cuddling,

for smearing finger paint, pounding play dough,

and building sheet tents,

for holding hands with the same guy

for 37 years,

for decorating home-made birthday cakes,

for wiping tears, noses, baby bottoms,

for clapping, snapping, finger playing,

and

piano plunking.

 

You've  held up pretty well.

You've given me great joy.

 Thanks for hanging in there,

knots, aches, and all.

You're the best...

hands down.