a few short weeks before my grandma passed away,
i stopped to see her.
ben, maddie and isaac were with me,
but i went in first.
grandma was sound asleep, reclining in her chair.
i took out my camera
and captured a picture of her hands,
still so sun-tanned and wrinkled;
not work-worn and cracked and rough
from the hard work of living and loving
gardening and baking.
when i was a little girl,
the ends of her fingers
were always a crazy pattern of cracks.
not cut or painful,
but like so much worn leather.
each crack was puttied with garden soil
or berry juice
or flour dust
or potato peel
or flower pollen.
even when she pulled her hands
from a sink full of dishes and sudsy, clean water,
the stories of her day
of her life
remained in the crevices in her fingers.
sun-baked and work-worn and love-filled.
i hope that i have such beauty marks,
such stories told in skin,
when i am older,
when i am a grandma.