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Grandpa's Hands

My Grandpa has arthritis, and it's getting harder and harder for him to accomplish certain things. His hands are molded to fit an everlasting curve. He loves to just 'do' things though. He still plays basketball with us grandkids, and he goes to my grandparent's farm everyday without fail. He works all day long there, doing just small jobs that need to be done, or maybe fixing or building something for someone else, but he is always doing something no matter how bad his hands hurt.

When I was a little girl, my grandpa would play this game with me. He would tell me to hold out my hand, and in it he would place a shiny silver quarter. Wow, I thought I had the world sitting in my hand. He would then tell me that if I could keep it away from him, then I could have it. So I would stretch out my hand, and barely get my fingers uncurled when I would feel a whisper on my palm, and slight pressure where my precious quarter once lay. I knew that I couldn't keep it away from him, but I always would try. Then he would tell me that if I could get it away from him, then he would give it back to me. He would hold out his hand, with my quarter in the middle.

I remember feeling so small compared to him, and I also remember feeling embarrassed because I knew there was know way that I could get that quarter from him. His hands were majestic in their immensity, and my hand was no more than a sparrow, trying to take a mouse from an Eagle. But, I tried, I would get my hand almost there when his fingers would curl back with such quick grace it looked animated. I would climb down from my chair, with defeat weighing heavily on my back, almost forgetting the best part.

"Bug?" he'd say.

"Ya Gramps?" I'd reply trying to sound as pathetic as possible.

"Here."

There in his outstretched warm, sympathetic hand would me my shiny, silver quarter. It always ended the same way, he would always hand it over. I think it was out of guilt for not going easier on me, or maybe sympathy. I always knew that I would have to wait until the game was over to get my quarter, because he has so much pride for himself, and self-worth that he couldn't loose to a 4-year old, and I never wanted him to. I never wanted to defeat him; I just wanted to be with him. He taught me later, when I was older how to snatch the quarter from him, and I could. I would stop though as his hands got worse because I couldn't stand to see the defeat in his eyes.

I loved to hear him tell me what I did wrong, and how to get it right the next time, and I loved the pride in his voice and hearing it come out to me as him feeling stronger, and more powerful then me. It was security I think, that made me do it. The stronger he felt the safer I knew I was.

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