Welcome to the first day of our 30/30!
Your prompt today is:
my grandmother’s hands
Guidelines, if you want them:
- Posting your response is not required
- Feel free to post your response  🙂
- This is not meant to be the perfect first draft – respond without hesitation for 5-7 minutes, then keep going if you want to
- While our prompts are geared towards poetry, we welcome all kinds of artists
- Tips & encouragement are here
QuillsEdge Press 
My grandmother’s hands rest
folded in her lap,
freckled and plump,
still and quiet,
resting from all the labor,
from tending the lettuces and radishes,
chopping the ends from the green onions,
primping and praising the flowers,
pinching off the old growth,
only the gold band adorning one finger.
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In your lovely simple words, I find a vivid picture. Thank you.
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Love this.
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My grandmother’s hands feared as much as her sharp tongue
and her shrill calls to sit nice on the
furniture. Pointing like a dagger as the screen door slams,
to not get dirty. Flung in the air in frustration at
grandpa for spoiling us with treats.
Always ready to reach for the brown leather strap
hanging in plain sight in the bathroom.
She sits in her chair, slapping her woe-is-me cheeks,
turning over each other in her lap,
fussing with her apron, moaning
what these hands have
had to put up with.
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Powerful writing.
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My grandmother’s hands
were always busy
stirring pot of soup
dusting
arranging the table
pouring drinkgs
making ravioli
serving at the table
Like a magician tho
in spite of all the work her hands had to do
she managed to create wonderful
fun surprises for her grandchildren
slight of hand from a hard life
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how they spin/the beads on a sandalwood rosary/
counting faith/in prayer/these chapped,
blackened hands/once they too/counted
bangles/played with toys/marbles with a brother/
who no longer calls/ her sister any more./
these hands, that have birthed/many a baby/many
a mother’s tearful eyes/bathed with gratitude./forlorn
now, they remember/being bridal once/blooming in henna/
blushing, being held/then, pale alabaster/too early, snatched
away/into swathes of white./they bore the heavy pots/the logs of wood/
the lone son/the hot cowdung/on the village sand./i remember/
these hands/massaging the fragrant oils/on my long black hair/
washing them tenderly/with shikakai & aritha/never shampoo/
then grinding the chutney/bottling pickles/oiling the rice and dals/
“to protect from insects” she says/ carrying me as a toddler/and now
carrying my bags to the airport/handing me over to a man/telling him/
i’m innocent/i know nothing/that after her/he will be the only one/
who knows me best./ she is right/ he has the same hands/ except/
i long for the ones/with the jagged nails/she never cuts/wipes off her
laughing tears/ at my silly jokes/ never hugs me/ holds me in the night/
when she thinks i’m asleep/not looking/but ever-knowing/where they are.
//my grandmother’s hands
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thank you, Anu, I love this poem
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Your diction is so vivid, Anu.
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i was so confused about yesterday. i am just getting the hang of this. i am a day late, but will be caught up today.
Day 1, a day late…
grandma’s left hand
my grandma had a mean left hand,
with youthful skin until her end.
no wrinkle or scar took away its skill.
my grandma had a mean left hand,
could lime and turn a dirt backyard,
all by herself and plant collards,
tomatoes and red-hot peppers.
my grandma had a mean left hand,
kneading yeast-puffed dough or peeling
peach skin into a thin spiral or beating
heavy cream into fluffy sweet stuff
for her sweet cobblers.
my grandma had a mean left hand,
could bury a butcher knife in
her skirt’s fold and invite
anyone to come mess with her.
my grandma had a mean left hand,
standing on our stoop, watching
me play with children, too afraid
to stay outside and play with me.
my grandma had a mean left hand,
she could catch my leg before i
got out of her sight and threw
an old oxford with perfect aim.
my grandma had a mean left hand.
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I love this portrait, Esther.
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She Wore a Tortoiseshell Ring
Here hands were made smooth by
Jergens Lotion, nails neatly manicured,
cuticles and half moons shining with
clear polish or the occasional splurge
of red for a celebration. They pulled
on kid gloves for Sunday Church or
traveling in the car, gingerly adjusted
the veil on a pheasant plumed hat,
unlike my mothers’ hands, thick and
chapped. She only used Trushay
when my father pushed, nails chipped
from garden rocks, the endless laundry
hung from dripping lines. Early on,
I wanted my grandmothers’ hands,
the ones that made Wolferman’s
hermits and the occasional pie.
At the time, I thought hers an
easy elegance, later knew it
to be a studied effort at rising above
the old washtub and boarding house.
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My Grandmother’s Hands
My grandmother’s hands still clap
to the music as she thinks about her black flapper dress
with all the fringe around the bottom.
She was the star of the ball room once-
when she could still wear that size eight dress.
The disco ball in the nursing home spins as
the music plays.
Her memories had the same effect of
another place in time when all
of the stars twirled around
in her own universe.
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