His Hands (Poem and Backstory)

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I was a couple of months shy of nine when we lost my Grandfather in “86” He was a multi talented man, who could paint beautiful portraits, landscapes, and other things too, I’d share his artwork here but the painting I have unfortunately isn’t something I can share here. My Grandfather was a woodworker, a painter, an actor, a banjo player, and much more, his talents seemed to be endless, his gifts astonishing, but his life had not been without its scars, he had survived the Great Depression, he served in the South Pacific during World War 2, but in 86, we would loose him to Leukemia, six weeks after diagnosis he’d be gone, partly due to the carelessness of some of the hospital staff... I was young when he died, not yet nine, but I have a few strong memories of him, that stick with me to this day, and when I smell freshly cut wood, I’m taken back to the workshop, behind the yellow house, watching his callused hands create a masterpiece. His hands Told stories Not in paper And ink But in wood And in canvas. I have the bookcase He built in 54 My Mother turned Three that year I wasn’t yet A glimmering in Her eye. He made it With oak And with love An eye for detail A few pieces Have gone Missing over The years I’ve meant To replace them But whose hands Will form them With the same passion he Did? He built other Things too China cabinets And every cabinet In the house They bought in “66” The house Where Nonna’s hands Gently fixed Scraped knees And cultivated roses And his hands Created masterpieces. His hands Wrote letters From far off Lands in “44” South Pacific World War 2. His hands told Stories wrought In one and blood Missing digits Callused hands That faded From us That September Of “86” © Michelle R Kidwell March.15.2021