A Grandmother's Hands

I trace the reels of string

Beneath your autumn leaf skin,

Explore the mountain ridges

And the valleys where you began to dream.

They were strong hands once,

Raising children in a land where you couldn’t speak the language.

You would pound the water into the flour,

Bake chapattis and stir curry over the highest heat,

But you fed that old Singer

With the same tenderness you used

To stroke your daughter’s head when she was sick.

Now you wrap those same hands in strips of old cloth

And try to hide the pain from your family.

Now you cup your daily prayers

With the daily pills you take (almost) without question.

They show me pictures from a time before.

I don’t recognise you

Like the time I first saw you in a hospital bed,

Or when I caught a glimpse of a bruise

That seemed stained with iodine

And then another

And another

Like a djinn had walked on your skin.

I tried to read your notes

But even after a year of medical school

It was all still Arabic to me.

Those pages were your life

Reduced to symbols and numbers and graphs.

Your hands now acted as a pincushion

For the miracles of modern day medicine.

I was worried that the smile they had tried to stitch back onto your face

Would split when we took you home,

The same way your hands shake

After you’ve sewn too many clothes.

But the strength was never just in your hands.

It’s as much you as your left ear

Or the way you write the number seven.

You once passed it to the world through your touch

And example,

Now through your smile

And wisdom,

Always through your love.

The fabric will tear

But you’ll remain you –

Strong despite the stitches

Which help hold your life together.

(C) Sarah Ahmed, 2012