Breadcrumb #672

KOSCINA RENAUD-TATE

My imagination twiddles like two thumbs
Creating stories
A fabrication of thoughts
painting vivid pictures
A Picasso of some sort
Blurs of browns and pinks
Such intricate detail 

See, I've never seen the hands
I couldn't tell you their color
But my brown skin must mirror
The past
Reflections reflected through me 

See, I never felt these hands
Were they soft and smooth?
A dainty little lady
Or tough skin?
From hard work and spankings
Were they wrinkle?
Crumbled newspaper
Old and precious hands holding stories of the past
Worn from the activities they endured 

See, I never smelt these hands
Soft scents of cocoa butter
Linger after hours
After pinching of cheeks
and cupping faces
Sweet kisses and
praises of affection 

Nope I've never seen, felt, or smelt these hands
They didn't care for me
Didn't nurse me back to health
or teach me right from wrong
But they taught someone else how to care for me
Just a pretty picture painted in my head 

These imaginary hands I always wished to know
A lesson learned to say the least
As I learned to never take small things forgranted
What I wouldn't give

To be in Grandma’s hands

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