hands

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