My hands are old.
I've never said that out loud before, but they are.
I was so proud of them once, they were soft like the velvet smoothness of a firm ripe peach.
Now the softness is like worn out sheets or withered leaves.
When did these slender, graceful hands become gnarled, shrunken?
When, God?
They lie here in my lap; naked reminders of the rest of this old body that has served me too well.
How long has it been since someone touched me?
Twenty years?
Twenty years I 've been a widow.
Respected.
Smiled at --- but never touched.
Never held close to another body.
Never held so close and warm that loneliness was blotted out.
I remeber how my mother used to hold me, God.
When I was hurt in spirit or flesh she would gather me close, stroke my silky hair and caress my back with her warm hands.
Oh, God, I'm so lonely.
I remember the first boy who ever kissed me.
We were both so new at that.
The taste of young lips and popcorn, the feelings deep inside of mysteries to come.
I remember Hank and the babies.
How can I remember them but together?
Out of the fumbling, awkward attemps of new lovers came the babies.
And, as they grow, so did our love.
And, God, Hank didn't seem to care if my body thickened and faded a little.
he still loved it, and touched it.
And we didn't mind if we were no longer "beautiful".
And the children hugged me a lot.
Oh, God, I'm lonely.
Why didn't we raise the kids to be silly and affectionate, as well as dignified and proper?
You see, they do thier duty.
They drive up in their fine cars.
They come to my room to pay their respects.
They chatter brightly and reminisce
But --- They don't touch me.
They call me "Mom" or "Mother" or "Grandma", never Minnie.
My mother called me Minnie and my friends.
Hank called me Minnie. too.
But they're gone.
And so is Minnie.
Only Grandma is here.
And, God she's lonely.
D. Swanson