Grandson is 41. Grandma is 92. Her bed is her parlor these days. Grandson sits on Grandma’s rumpled blankets and their hands speak a language only they know. He is her firstborn grand-boy. In bygone days he curled up in a sleeping bag on her bedroom floor, laughing and talking into the night. French toast and Legos. Cartoons and questions. She was his playmate and sage.
Now Grandma and Grandson range casually like two friends on horseback, talking over family matters and politics. They reminisce about God’s provision and share an intimate sense of eternity–Old Hands and Young Hands.
Old Hands grips a cup of strong, black coffee.
Young Hands clasps a mocha.
Old Hands loses her glasses in the covers.
Young Hands puts them back on her nose.
Old Hands hugs Young Hands, reluctant to let him leave.
Young Hands lingers.
Old Hands waves goodbye.
Young Hands grabs his hat and kisses Grandma’s forehead.
Old Hands clasps her hands together, wistfully.
Young Hands grips the steering wheel, heart reflective.
Old Hands, Young Hands– in two worlds, yet never apart.