I want so much more than 
delicate elastic fingers
primed and polished. 
Give me the hands that have dug the ground  
harvested the rice, 
raised the children, 
and buried the dead.

The generous hands that have cut the fruit 
and spoon fed the young ones. 
The hands that  
combs hair, 
dresses daughters,
and scoops fire. 

When I look at my grandmother’s hands 
I know they’re capable of 
making my favorite dish,
when I return home. 
They cup my face,
squeeze my shoulders,
and tell me 
welcome back.

And when I look at mine 
I am unimpressed. 
I cannot touch fire
it burns to dip my fingertips into boiling oil. 
I cannot give back to the earth 
and reap enough to feed a family.
They have not been touched by time.
They do not give. 

Her’s 
lined with age, 
skin layered and languid, 
calluses caked, 
are the most beautiful hands I know.