Now there is only a fray-edged quilt
where once I listened with little ears
to the clumsy tales of Winnie the Pooh
from pages turned by calloused hands
Hands accustomed to shucking fresh corn
atop the shaded steps of the back porch
recounting childhood dolls with hair made from
the same silken threads I pulled from the husks
Hands that rolled biscuit dough in seconds
with a wooden pin and butter-flecked
flour scooped from a metal tin before
showing me how a can cuts perfect circles
Hands that could coax stems and buds
even from seeds turned to dust in the soil
browned leaves burgeoning and greened
cultivating my fledgling faith in lost things
Hands that mended what was broken
and pieced together squares of old dresses
to fashion blankets full of warm memories
that covered me from head to toe each night
Hands that wrote notes in the margin
of a Bible with radio station Bingo cards
tucked between the verses recited
to remind me of my God-given worth
Hands that loaded old cassette tapes
into the portable radio and pressed record
prompting notes of “Jesus Loves Me”
to preserve my twangy toddler lisp
Hands that patted me to sleep as an infant
and sang nighttime hymns to soothe me
when my knees ached with the growth
of change that now seems insignificant
Hands that live today only in faded visions
revisited in a grown granddaughter’s mind
dutifully recalling the mountain-bred wisps
of wisdom willed to me by ancestral ties
Erika Carter is a thirty-something homeschooling mother of three and late-diagnosed autistic poet from East Tennessee who writes about identity, trauma, and mental health. She teaches English, literature, and creative writing to college students in her spare time.
**Featured image credit: Chris Marchant – Flickr, CC 2.0