old hand

Whose hands are those?  Whose thinning hair
and small eyes, drab, but mischief-merry?
Who is that crone whose energy flags,
who can’t keep up with all I used to do?
I’d fret, and yet
I’m a grandma soft, my contours
plump enough to nestle up to
as I snuggle little ones into a book,
my old arthritic hands,
loose with flesh to push and pull,
as wee fingers trace the routes of veins,
small maps upon a freckled landscape,
and ask, “How old ARE you, Lala?”
These hands need help at times—
need mercy from the jumpers
and the frolickers.  I cry “uncle” sooner,
and call for rescue from such antics.
What I do have is scads of factoids
and wisdom to answer the curiosities
of little minds…to listen to the things
that “puzzle” a six-year-old
and answer questions that take me deep
into the file cabinets of memory.
This outer husk wasting away houses
a fountain of youthful exuberance for life. 
I do not lose heart, but gain the devotion
of five little hearts and the smiles,
the kisses and hugs that prove
that I am still treasured and wanted
and essential.  I rest in that.

Liz McFadzean