Withering Hands

These hands. Strong and powerful. Soothing and gentle. As if these embody a complete character, the whole persona. A person engrossed in her life, fulfilling its duties religiously. Duties as a daughter, as a wife, as a mother, as a homemaker — as an epitome of tolerance, patience and acceptance as life comes.

Her hands do not have manicured fingers as an epitome of fashion; her hands are age ridden, filled with lines, time-worn yet experienced and comforting. You are seeing the hands of my 79 year old grandmother. Her hands are diligently working on an Indian cutting utensil.

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When Death Rings in the New Year

Gordon Davidescu wrote this article.

Sunday morning, December 30th, 2007 seemed like just about any other morning. It was to be the next to last day of the year. How could I have known that it would have been one of the saddest days for me? I suppose the first thing that should have alerted me that something was wrong was that I noticed that my father had called – rather early, actually. I didn’t want to admit it to myself but the first though I had was that my grandmother had passed away. Then again, I had previously had this thought when either my father or mother had called in unusual circumstances and I was wrong then.

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Happy Birthday Granny

It has been nearly four years since my grandmother fell due to a stroke that has caused her to live under supervised care around the clock since then. Despite having difficulties in communicating and sometimes wondering if she fully understanding what I am saying, I could hear in her voice the happiness she felt as I wished her a happy ninety-fifth birthday. It brought back a delightful flood of memories for me.

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My grandmother on my mother’s side, of blessed memory, passed away ten years ago this month. She continues to have a presence, however, through her influence and the love that radiated from her over her lifetime. No matter how much I may be in shock that we have lost her, nothing will bring her back.

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