I'm no good at the wheel. This is slab work: molded over a bowl and left to dry (and painted).
Hands:
Of my father
Soft, padded fingers
Outside on the back patio, I sit a little hot under the
vinyl white hairdresser’s body cape, on the swiveling stool
Fingers gingerly over my head, as you duck down, bending
your knees so you can get the straight view to cut my wet hair
(the only haircut you’re giving today that’s not a buzz)
You dry it with the towel – a whirlwind machine, encasing my
entire head
You lightly turn the pages of Anne of Green Gables, To Kill
a Mockingbird,
Enunciating in a lulling yet crisp voice, stopping and
giving all the right emphases
as one familiar with the ways of words
of my mother
Wringing dry on the towel in the kitchen, as you turn around
Pausing, resting at the counter, nodding to an onlooker
Chopping vegetables
On the steering wheel of the car as you drive us to school
A ring from Granny – special, not so much because of the
stone, but rather because of the emotional significance, you fiddle with it
with your right thumb, take it off and set it in the ring of your watch
Kneeling, on the bathroom floor, scrubbing all the crevices:
thorough.
 |
| Not pictured: the hand with wedding ring and pretty blue stones |
of Nana
Outstretched for a hug, in your apron, after we’ve pulled up
in the driveway
nails painted a rouge or classy, autumn rust shade embedded
within gentle, soft fingers
A petite ruby red Notre Dame ring, a memento of that special
place
scooping up bite-sized chocolate chip cookies
Giving me, little granddaughter seated at your counter, a
task: rolling up bologna and cheese to put on a cold cut platter, for our
Turkey Bowl meal
Up in the air, clapping together as you lean back, shaking your
head,
laughing
 |
| Diet Coke today |
of Pops
around a glass of Jack Daniels on the rocks, your request
after you pull into our house
a large ruby Notre Dame ring, a memento of that special
place
fingers drumming the table
In the air, as you tells a joke, “and so on and so forth,”
in your thick Maine accent
Texas Hook’em horns formed in the shape of “I love you”
hands –
you prod us away, with love, as we begin the drive back to Virginia
...
"As the clay is in the in potter's hand, so are you in mine." Jer 18:6
