I stood holding her hand yesterday, I stoked her arm, I talked to her a little, and I thought.
I thought about her hands and her arms.
For my entire life Grandma has been "squishy," but lately she has lost so much weight that the skin on her arms hangs loose. Her knuckles are gnarled by the years and by arthritis. Her hands are swollen from the IV's snaking along the bed, biting every finger and hand.
But, her hands are broad. Her fingers are not long and elegant. They are short and stocky. They are like my mom's. Like my aunts'. Like mine.
Her skin is pale, dotted with angel kisses up and down her porcelain arms. Like my mom's. Like my aunts'. Like mine.
My grandma's arms have rocked us to sleep. They have hauled our laundry out to dry. They have carried boxes and boxes of produce for sale. Her hands have spanked us. They have fed us. They have bathed us. They have dressed and diapered us.
Grandma's hands have reached all the way up her arms, and straight to her heart. They have been hands of love to each and every one of us.
Just like my mom. Just like my aunts. And I hope someday, someone will say, just like me.