'Grandmother’s Hands' by Sue Pearson

Grandmother’s hands were broad and capable. Solid squat fingers which kneaded bread, swept crumbs from tablecloths, folded clothes and made beds.

Grandfather gestured passionately when he preached the Bible, tears wetting his hot cheeks. His hands bunched to fists when we were caught on the swing on Sunday, but Grandmother’s hands waved before his black pip eyes, took us by our shoulders and marched us inside.

Out of sight, Grandmother’s hands softened, wiped away our tears and smoothed our hair and clothes. Her arms wrapped us, pulled us close and her mouth told us stories of nursing in the Great War. She said her hands had never stopped patching up the folly of man.

Grandmother’s hands had loosened Grandmother’s histories and we sought her out in quiet corners pulling at her fingers until we girls had travelled with her from Antrim to Venezuela, from girlhood to womanhood, and from womanhood to motherhood. All the while her fingers folded about and into one another, hands resting in her own unassuming lap.

Grandfather’s hands pulled potatoes from the earth. Grandmother’s hands washed, peeled, cooked and mashed them. They chopped and boiled scallions in milk. Mixed and shaped hot champ like volcanoes on our plates, butter lava pouring down their sides from the craters on top.

Grandfather’s hands took up the knife and fork, one in each fist, and brought them down hard on the table top. “Champ, champ, champ, champ!” He cried and winked at us until we joined in and Grandma’s cheeks were pink from laughter and the food was on the table.

Returning his cutlery to the table, Grandfather waited until we folded our hands too. Then he prayed over plates of hot Vesuvius and thanked God for his tender mercies.