They’re soft. They’re warm. They’re innocent. They’ve not yet seen work or hardship or disappointment. They are the hands of my preschool granddaughter.
As I sit here this morning at my computer, photos of a recent visit scrolling my iPad, my granddaughter’s hands are bringing forth tears. Why?
Months separate our visits, so I savor them through photos. And, forgive me grandmas that regularly care for your little ones and could readily hide them under the bed (I know that feeling, too), but between visits, I live with lots of photos that yank at only the good side of my heart.
If you pinched the skin on the top of her hand, you’d get nothing; if you pinched mine, you’d see tissue-thin skin staying upright a second or two before slowly receding to its previous position. Her bones and ligaments and veins remain hidden under her softness; mine shout hello and say, “Be careful, I’m getting older. I’m getting fragile.”
I wonder how long she’ll want to compare the size of her palm with mine. How long she’ll giggle as we try to line up our fingers, only to find mine are too long. How long she’ll stay quiet about the changes in the appearance of our skin. After all, she’s already observed, “You have a jumpy neck, Grandma!”
I wonder how long she’ll want to read picture books with me, her hand on mine as she says, “This page is pink, Grandma. Everything’s pink. Like my dress.”
Indeed, like her dress. And, my day. Because of the photos, my day is pink with memories.