BY BARBARA J. MCGUIRK

My Nana’s hands are soft.

They sift flour.

They knead dough,

They bake bread.

My Nana’s hands fed me.

My Bapci’s hands are rough.

They pick beans.

They gather eggs.

They skin rabbits.

My Bapci’s hands fed me.

My Nana’s hands open the Bible.

My Bapci’s hands finger rosary beads.

Their hands clasped together, they pray.

Their hands pointed me to heaven.

My Nana’s hands buttoned my shirt.

My Bapci’s hands pulled on my boots.

At night, they tucked me in.

My Nana’s hands caressed my cheek.

My Bapci’s hands rumpled my hair.

My hands in theirs, I moved through my childhood.

Comment