By Libby Grobmyer
No model’s hands are these—
bony and thin skinned, prominent
blue veins—even when I was young.
My granddaughter studies them
now, with a look that feels familiar
as I remember studying my own
grandmother’s hands—half
revulsion, half curiosity. Holding
my hands as a palm reader might,
her tiny fingers trace the network
of veins, pressing in, then releasing.
I now see a pattern of sorts—maybe
a heart line here, a life line there,
intersecting then circling back, an
intricate web of blue that seems to
have no beginning and no end; rather,
arising and fading as a mystery. I wish
I’d known your grandmother, Mary says,
looking up with her bright blue eyes.
You know her hands, I think to myself.
Note:
This poem was written in response to an intimate moment between a grandmother and her young granddaughter. Although there were only two people present, the spirit of the ancestors was keenly felt. Past, present, and future became one in the simple gesture of holding a hand.
Libby Darwin Grobmyer, M.A., BCCC, is a board-certified clinical chaplain and serves as chaplain with the Division of Palliative Medicine at UAMS. She has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Political Science from Mary Baldwin College in Staunton, Virginia and a Master of Arts degree in Public History from UA-Little Rock. She is also a graduate of the Haden Institute for Spiritual Direction in Kanuga, N.C. and has trained at Upaya Zen Center in Santa Fe, N.M. Libby lives in Little Rock, Arkansas with her husband of 52 years. She has three children, seven grandchildren, and two beloved miniature dachshunds. In addition to writing, Libby enjoys reading, traveling, and needlepoint.