Grandma Spelta

I never knew her younger hands. The hands unscarred by life. When I was born her hands had already seen eighty-two years.

All the same they were beautiful hands. They represented all that she had seen and done in her lifetime. Each line, each wrinkle could tell a tale of a place visited, a road traveled or a home built.

Her nails were always neat, clean and trimmed. She never, ever wore nail polish. For, as she was fond of saying that is not how things were done in the old country.

Some of my first memories were of her hands at work. She was sitting in front of the fireplace her glasses perched upon the end of her nose. On her lap rested a skein or two of colorful yarn. In my young imagination she appeared to be a magician at work, her knitting needles her magic wands. What began, as a skein of yarn would before my eyes transform into a pair of socks, a scarf or a sweater.

I developed my love of cooking, especially Italian dishes, from watching her work in the kitchen. Everything she cooked she made from scratch and the food she prepared was seasoned with love. I can see her now with her sleeves rolled up, flour coating her arms to the elbow, while she gently kneaded the dough that she would bake into a savory loaf of bread.

My most treasured memories of her came from watching bedtime preparations. Her hands, those instruments of creation, would remove the pins from her white hair. When down her hair was in my mind as long as Rapunzel's. She would sit in front of her vanity and brush her hair with an antique silver brush; every night one hundred strokes no more no less. When she was finished her hair reflected the lamplight like the moon reflects the sun. Next she would open a bottle of her favorite cream, a gift from one of her son's, and she would rub it into the crack and wrinkles covering her wise hands.

Finally, she would kneel at the end of the bed. Her hands would come together, fingers intertwined; she would close her eyes and begin her evening prayers, in Latin. My sleep filled eyes would close and I would float away on the sound of those ancient words coming from her lips as she recited the Lord's Prayer.