My Grandfather’s Hands

Grief has a funny way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it. I recently have really been missing my grandfather; his words, his advice, his kindness. I’m sitting on the train wondering what I should blog about this month and that grief brought me back to something I wrote back in November. I think it’s special in Black History Month to honor all contributions big and small that black people have given to make us stronger and better not only as a people but as individuals. Here’s a small but impactful way that he contributed to my life.

Many people discuss the importance of a grandmother’s hands. Her touch, her hugs, the way she cooks with love, the way she worships, and the way she prays. But lately I’ve been thinking of my grandfather and how much I miss him. I realize the feature I miss most his is hands.

When we would sit together on the couch for one of our long chats they would be the first things I would grab. They were old (of course) but they were soft. Big enough to hold my own and I felt safe. My grandfather used his hands his whole life from when he worked the tractor in the South to when he worked as a milk man in Newark, NJ until those beautiful hands just gave out.

My grandfather’s hands didn’t do too much the last few years of his life. But they were always available for me to hold for as long as I liked and they always brought so much comfort. I’d like to think my grandfather knew that.