Second generation hand painted tiles
pepper her kitchen walls and mug shot coffee cups
are lovingly displayed in her living room,
a room removed from time,
with its green shag carpets
and lace clad bay windows
overlooking grandpa's duck pond
underneath her mothers willow tree.
As she settles into her back porch rocker,
her eldest sons highschool pride and joy
with a daughters home brewed tea
and anothers organic low fat biscuit
she remembers a time of hands.
A time when hands joined together
and could be borrowed for a cup of tea.
A time when they made and mended,
loved and wiped away tears,
a time when hands soothed paper
with ink and proclaimed imagination
to the world with homemade brushes and paint.
She sighs in agitation, as her arthritis
plagued hands send angry protesters
marching along her nerves as she
raises a craft fair tea cup to her lips.
Faintly she hears the front door open and close,
quickly she braces herself for the rush
of untainted love about to bound into her arms
with squeals of "Grandma" accompanied by small palms
stuffed with this weeks creations and treasures.
23 hours ago