I don't know when I first noticed her hands, gnarled and twisted. I don't remember the precise moment that I first paid attention. But I do remember that ever since then, when I think of Grandma, I think of her hands. Her beautiful, worn, compassionate hands.
Twisted by arthritis, lined with aging blue veins, they shake with the effort to even hold a pen. They have wiped many a tear, held many a hand, made many a thanksgiving dinner, caressed both grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
It was these hands that lovingly held mine, as we traipsed down the driveway to see the cattle back on the farm, me barely able to toddle, but oh so proud to walk hand-in-hand with her.
It was these hands that helped me stand on a chair, so that I could "help" with thanksgiving dinner, trained mine how to whisk the gravy just so, at age five, so that it didn't have any lumps.
It was these hands that caressed the fingerprints of her grandchildren smudging on the window, leaving them there, long after they'd gone home, in the joy and celebration of their visit that she just didn't want to let end.
It was these hands that held my son, so many years after they held me as an infant, the same smile, same joy, same delight, that I see in the pictures from years and years earlier.
It is these hands that I now hold steady when I visit. It is these hands that I now help to stir the gravy, set the table, prepare the feast. These same hands that I hold to help her walk across the room, her legs now less stable, me, just proud to walk hand-in-hand with her.
These hands, so worn and weathered, bearing the marks of a life well-lived. These hands which tell a story of years, places, adventures, and memories. These hands which I will always hold, with pride.
They are beautiful.
STOP.

Wonderful. Made me tear up. Its wonderful that you've built up relationship between many generations. Not many families can say that. That is truly beautiful.
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