HeartLines

I miss your hands. Your fingers, though gnarled and twisted with arthritis, were always soft.
Gentle. Mothering hands, grandmothering hands.
They taught me how to whisk. Held my hand around measuring cups and sifted flour out of the bag.
Those hands, scarred, were capable only of love.
They held a potato in one and an old-fashioned peeler in the other, the words “and you must watch the blade,” carrying over the sizzle of water on the stove and the whirr of the ancient mixer in my mother’s hand.
They wrote in short, slanted script, Happy Birthday! Merry Christmas! Love, Grandma and Grandpa.
They typed recipes from memory onto lined index cards and tucked them away.
	Those hands cracked open the dusty book and one crooked finger tapped on the page. 
We, the grandchildren, followed as best we could the picturesque tablescape you showed us. I don’t think you would have minded either way.
	Your hands would whisk pancake batter and scramble eggs before anyone else was awake, before spending the next five, six hours, more, making dinner, dessert, appetizers.
	I miss the knotted whorls on the table, smoothed and lacquered into the wood.
	I miss the snow on the fence posts, the roof of the barn. I miss the ice on the skylight when I opened my eyes.
	I miss the sound of my father’s snores on the couch and the smell of my mother’s perfume from where she slept a few feet away. I miss the springs of the mattress on the floor digging into my back and the three of us packed under one blanket.
I miss walking past the windows, past the drying boots and gloves by the door and listening for a car in the driveway, for the cousins to arrive.
I miss Grandpa’s hands. How they would hold one of mine in both and slip a dollar bill between my fingers with a kiss on my cheek.
Miss America…
I miss the smell of the woodstove, my father sniffling and griping about the dry heat.
I miss the sound of the chimes on the ceiling fan and the rattle of the kitchen floor as socked feet ran across it.
I miss a lot of things. Your cooking. Mom’s cooking. Your laugh, rare and quiet as it was. Grandpa’s smile, his dimples, the snores echoing from his recliner in the corner. I miss the house, the fields, the barn. I miss the drive home, spinning the dials on the dashboard, sifting through the static for a radio station playing Christmas carols.
I miss a lot of things.