Her Hands tells the memory of a great-grandmother and the great-grandmother's influence.

Her hands worked the pie dough on the old counter to create a light and flaky dessert. These same hands had worked the earth to bring forth home grown tomatoes with a flavor that could not be found in any market. Her wedding ring twisted on her left hand held in place by the swollen red knuckle. These same hands held my grandfather, my mother, and even me, her first great grandchild, the day of our births. They also held her four year old granddaughter’s hand when she sat at her daughter-in-law’s funeral. Her hands created comfort and gave strength. Her hands never stopped even as the rest of her body showed evidence of age. Fine bead gifts, knit dolls, and an array of crafts were always in the sewing room. I would enter her back screen door into the kitchen and there she sat, pen in hand, completing a crossword puzzle awaiting my arrival.

Great-Grandma believed in hard work. She lived through the days with no running water in her home and raising her grandchildren as her own. She worked nights at the hospital scrubbing things clean to provide for the family. Hard work showed on her hands. I miss those hands, those long brightly painted finger nails. I don’t recall her complaining about the pain that must have been endured from the rheumatoid arthritis. Those were strong hands that left a legacy.