My Grandmother's Hands

Perfectly curled cursive swoops across planes of paper at an angle of elegance—each letter the product of attentive artistic fingers. My grandmother has beautiful handwriting. A skill only honed and refined with sixty-six years of practice. All of my birthday and Christmas and Valentine’s Day and Halloween and Just-Because-We-Love-You cards from my grandparents boasted those easily recognizable coils of ink: the black and blue fruit of well-trained hands. Hands that play the piano, that paint with watercolor, that sew curtains and dresses for little girls, and that slip twenty dollar bills into pockets with a wink belong to my Grandmother. Hands always busy and always giving.
In September, I received a letter in the mail. At first, I couldn’t figure out who it was from. My name and address were written with all capital letters—clearly the mark of a man, but who? In my excitement, I completely forgot about the existence of a return address, and I opened the letter. I was faced with a beautiful card bearing butterflies and pink flowers. The plot thickens… What kind of man would send me such an effeminate specimen? Opening the card, I found some pictures of my family, and a check for one hundred dollars! Then, I read the letter, “JUST A NOTE TO WISH YOU A GOOD YEAR IN SCHOOL. THE CHECK MAY HELP FOR BOOKS. LOVE, GRAMMY & GRANDDAD.”
“Wow, how thoughtful and sweet,” I thought to myself. “My Granddad has never sent me a letter by himself before. I wonder if Grammy even knows about it…” When I called to thank them, I found out that the card was actually my Grandmother’s idea, as was the usual case. She was surprised by my surprise, and I explained the confusion with the handwriting mystery.
“Well, Amanda,” she said. “I’ve been having trouble with my hands lately. The doctors don’t know why, but I can’t even hold a pencil, so I had your grandfather write it out for you.” Her voice was quieter than usual, and I could sense a pang of frustration. That was the first time I tasted the reality of my grandmother’s age.
Granted, sixty-six is not old relative to the age of most grandparents. I was blessed by knowing them at such a young age. My grandmother was 45 when I was born: her first grandchild. She practically helped my mother raise me. My siblings and I spent the night at my grandparents’ house at least once every month, and all of our holiday dinners were served on my their long dining room table. I, of course, had to sit at the children’s table in the kitchen.
One of the weirdest realizations is that your grandparents are actually people. It’s like seeing your middle school teacher at the movie theater. That realization is as amazing as it is sad. Once you take your grandparents off their pedestal of perfection, you can get to know them on a much deeper level. On the other hand, your previous notion of their invincibility vanishes, and you realize they just are susceptible to the world as you are--susceptible to its temptations, illnesses, anger, and greed. When I stumbled upon the humanity of my grandparents (as well as my parents, aunts, and uncles), I fell face first into a huge murky puddle of family issues. Power struggles, empty voids, grudges, and distrust stained my white dress of naivety.
Now, I am old enough to join the adults, but there is no longer a table for me to sit at. My uncle’s and aunts are rarely in the same room, let alone the same town. Christmas is a touchy subject, and all my holidays are seasoned with a dash of bitterness and a pinch of jealousy. I long for the days when I only knew the taste of stuffing and peanut butter cookies.
Regardless of all this, my Grandparents are still present in my life. I swear they must have clones of themselves hidden in their garage. Nevertheless—life always disenchants you when it sees you taking something for granted. This time, Life used Thanksgiving to drop kick me out of my ignorance.
My aunt had my family and my grandparents over for Thanksgiving dinner. Me, being the workaholic that I am, had to get home the next day, so I spent the night at my grandparents’ house. They live close to the train station, which meant everyone could sleep in. We got in around ten-thirty at night. I played them a few songs on their dusty little piano. Then we sat and talked for a while about the latest family feud, the oldest family feud, college, the weather, and my grandmother’s hands. She still couldn’t write, and I found out the piano was so dusty because it hurt her to play. Scleroderma the doctors now called it. Sclera as in “scar,” and derma as in “skin.” Apparently, my grandmother’s immune system is in the middle of an identity crisis. Instead of fighting off diseases, it is actually attacking her body by building up scar tissue in her hands. They look swollen, and are cold and hard to the touch. Those hands that used to do so much are now almost useless.
Those hands, however, can still communicate. They hold on just a little longer, and they hug a little tighter than they used to. They squeeze every last drop out of the moment. I used to have so many cards from my grandparents that I’d throw them away. Now, I rumble through old stacks of papers just to see that beautiful swirling penmanship my grandmother can never produce again.