"Her hands..."

her hands
are
my oldest memory...

and when they
smooth the hair
at my
temples
damp with
nightmares,
tears,
heartbreak...

I am not
a grandmother...
I am a child.

In my hair they
have never
changed.

The fingers that
section off
three hanks from
the whole...

and carefully
braid them into
a pattern of
grey and white
herringbone...

feel no
different from the
fingers that
pulled two
sections into piggytails
on either side
of my head
-- just above my ears --
encircling them with
crisp, blue
grosgrain ribbons
one long ago Easter Sunday,
when my
hair was
still pale
and I
wore
black
patent-leather
maryjanes,
scratchy petticoats,
and ankle socks
trimmed in lace.

Her hands are always
cool when my
heart is fevered, and
warm when
the wintery blasts of
sorrow rattle the
doorsjambs and
shake the windowpanes of
my
not-as-secure-as-I'd-hoped
rather
fragile
peace.

Her hands
held the pen that
signed permission slips,
traced numbers and
letters on my back when sleepless
nights loomed large,
and
found my tickle spot
everytime.

I love her hands....