Grandmothers Hands

As a child I would place my closed eyes in them while she hummed Gaelic melodies neither she nor I had words for. Her apron, it was brown like a butchers smock but with not a speck of blood upon it only daubs of fruit dumplings and the savor of rose-hip and elderberry flowers. Her hands were upon her lap and in them I placed my lips and upon those lips the four seasons came together melded there. At times, by candle light I would read her old hands the lines upon them were paths of wisdom I now but partly understand. Grandmother had large hands large enough for my heart and hers. When they closed It was as if a flower had closed at the end of day.