I want to write about my grandmother's hands
And how they have performed through life
Maneuvering with wooden spoons as steam permeates into her skin
Worn and wrinkled but still beautiful
Scrubbing stubborn leftovers off of glass plates
Tucking in weary children in dim lighting
Crawling into bed, gripping the end of the covers, pulling them over herself, keeping warm in winter weather
Wrapping herself up, placing her hands under the cold pillow
These hands have mirrored warriors
Marched like marines, held other hands, they have been kissed
They have been clenched into fists
They have been burned by aluminum pans
Slaving away for her family
These hands only want the best for you
These hands have wiped away tears
These hands have trembled at what they could not prevent
My grandmother's hands are still at work
The longest career imagined, laboring through the world
Layering themselves in survival
Her hands have experienced life in many different ways
And I will continue to read them like a story book
Until they go cold