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These Hands Tell storeis
We sat on the porch
My grandfather and I
As the crickets sand their sweet lullaby
The sun was setting,
Leaving the sky the colour of the pink lemonade in our sweating glasses
The porch swing creaked
In the evening breeze
That rolled through the country
Rustling the trees
We sat on the porch
My grandfather and I
As the sound of his voice harmonized with the chirping birds
I lent him my ear and he lent me his story
His words took me on a journey
Over oceans and deserts,
Through triumphs and sorrows,
Meadows, memories
We sat on the porch
My grandfather and I
As the blazing orange sun disappeared over the swaying pine trees
As he pulls back the curtain
As the levee breaks
As the tales of adventure lead me through the corridors of his mind
I glance at his hands
The worn, creased fingers
Tough like the bark of a tree
Yet soft, gentle
These are the hands that twirled and swung my grandmother on the dance floor
That healed the wounds of soldiers fighting for the freedom of their country
That steered the handlebars of his little girl’s first bicycle
That held that little girl through scraped knees, heartbreaks, and the death of her mother
That lay a delicate crimson rose on my grandmother’s grave every year on their anniversary
The hands that sit across from me in the fading dapple light
We sat on the porch
My grandfather and I
As the night’s crisp breath lingers on my neck
The sweet timeworn gentleman sits next to me
Fragile with age
He chokes on his words
Crystal tears run along his wrinkled cheeks
I take his fingers in mine
He does not need to continue,
For I’ve already known
These hands tell stories
All their own
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