Grandma’s Hands Chris Lucka Grandma’s hands looked old with branches of blue veins, like tree roots, pathways from her younger years. She called them “gnarled” after washing clothes by hand, wringing each piece and hanging them on the lines Grandpa strung. She cooked over the big black stove that dominated the kitchen. She worked yeast into dough, making and baking bread and pies that made her kitchen smell like I was encrusted in a warm loaf, inviting me to stay. She said my hands had no experience, keeping them pink and tender compared to her rough knuckles. But she knew how to soothe me when I scraped my knee or comfort me when my parents left for an evening out. Her hands worked their magic as she rubbed my back, turned pages as she read from my latest storybook, or tucked me in at night, after putting our hands together for an end-of-day prayer.
Still Life 2020
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