GrandPa's Hands
GrandPa's hands are West Indian.
Not just any West Indian,
but the kind of West Indian that tells stories for days,
about how he did a salsa two step to win my abuela's heart,
or how he worked 24/7 to raise five bad ass kids alone,
until he found grandma number two.
He was always a lady's man.
His hands would wrap around their waist
pulling them in for a slow dance,
as he whispered "you know I love you right?
The world would stop spinning without you,
food has lost all taste and
water can no longer nourish my body,"
or so, i imagined those were his exact words
as their bodies rocked back and forth
in unison as his hands played
piano across their lower backs.
(Yea, he's that original OG).
One day, I wish to have hands like the Big AL,
layered with wisdom,
stacked with pure age.
You know, the good age.
Where you had a lifetime of learning without books.
"GrandPa, show them how to throw up them deuces the right way".
"O GrandPa, texting is a way to message through the phone so you don't have to call".
"GrandPa! Women are not the only ones in the kitchen, men can cook now-a-days".
But most of all GrandPa's hands were giving
and with as much swag
as one hand could have,
he smoothly slide me a 100 dollar bill,
"Go buy yourself a pencil".
XOXO
1 comment:
Oh AJ, this was perfect. I so selfishly want him alive and with us again. Unfortunately, he is probably exactly where he longed to be.
It was a privilege to have loved him. Too bad he doesn't belong to me.
Thank you for your support.
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