Poem: Grandmother's brooch

Listen to the spoken version

They say hands tell us a story, you can read them, line by line,

how you’ve lived, who you’ve loved and who you’ve lost,

it’s all out in the open,

our hands can show us what we hide.

Grandma, if asked to read your hands,

if I held them, tracing signs, to look for the narration of your life,

I imagine it to feel just like the brooch I found when we emptied out your house,

when you said, that now it’s mine.

I looked at it today as I attached it to my bag,

It made such lovely noises, It reminded me of how the mornings at yours felt,

when I came down wooden stairs, and heard you putting dishes on the table,

I smelled eggs and thought of honey and the horses in the stable.

There was something in the air, Hard to describe,

I miss it more than just a lot,

because being in that moment, always felt

like the truest biggest hug.

So now I look right at the brooch, and I see a hazelnut,

For me that comes close to paint a picture,

A home filled with warmth and honesty,

and it was you who made it that.

I see a pearl with curves and edges,

as if it’s fought for its place on the chain,

Just like you’ve always stood up for thinking different,

You do it now, you did it then.

You say your mother was the first,

That as a woman in a village years ago she got her licence,

the courage that she had back then,

you’ve made it your very own requirement.

I love that story and how you tell it,

Just like the lily on the brooch,

It speaks of your sophistication, your elegance, your self-evidence,

in all the things you do.

Speaking of those things you make,

You truly are in artist in all that,

Just as the brooches maple leaf turns copper when the seasons change,

You paint dolls, you craft cards,

You inspire us to always hold creativity

close and tight to our own heart.

You say: it does bring out the sun,

It makes us smile when life gets hard.

Last, I see a little golden box between the leaf, the pearl, the lily,

It looks a little like a bird cage, almost seems random, maybe silly,

But to me it does make sense, You love to hear the robin sing,

And as you keep your passions close, you help others spread their wings,

You told me “a brooch for each day”

Each one tells its story has something to say,

And now I get it, you are right, because you’re the one that chose them,

I’ve read it as if it were your hands, and I will keep it as your life's token.

(poem: grandmother's brooch)