One frail hand, wrinkled and worn,
grasping the tiny fingers of her
first great-great grandchild.
Hands, shriveled and spotted,
caressing the small, soft hands of this child
soothing away the cares of the day.
Fingers, ancient and arthritic,
curling around the chubby fingers of the babe
she would never see grow into a woman.
Hands, veined and vulnerable,
imparting with aged eloquence a touch, a memory
of two lives entwined for a moment.
Photo taken by me, two years ago. (Julia-3 months old, Rubye-102 years old)
Poem written by my sweet mother, two weeks ago.