They have her hands.

Especially her thumbs.

She was ninety years and two generations ahead of them, but they got her genes.  And I notice almost every day.

When they grasp their pencil and purse their lips in concentration, I see it.  When they lean their bony elbows into my rib cage trying to close the gap and see the pictures, I notice.

The same thumbs that used to rub my back to help me fall asleep on Thursday nights when Mom was at her prayer meeting.  The same hands that would conceal her cards when we played Kings in the Corner at the octagonal table in her condo.  The hands that used to scoop up warm spoonfuls of pink applesauce into my bowl at Thanksgiving.

Those hands are much smaller now, and get grubby often, smearing sticky stuff all over my dining room table.  They lifts spoons to mouths that won’t stop talking, even full of store-bought applesauce.

The hands that were my grandma’s live on today, and they’re tucked up under chins and sleeping upstairs.

This post was written in five minutes on the prompt “Hands.”  Join in Five-Minute Friday over at Lisa-Jo Baker’s by clicking here.