Biscuit Making Hands

Their beauty now erupts in the sweet folds of unfamiliar lines

Check out the full poem here – “To the Woman With Hands Made for Biscuit Making”

This poem grew out of a writing exercise that I was doing one day where I was using my grandmother as my muse :-).  I remember on one of my trips home, we were sitting in her living room talking for hours — as we usually do — about everything.  We got on the topic of just how far we’ve come as a human race of people and she begun to talk about dreams that she’d had.  Sometimes we forget about the dreams that our parents and grandparents must have had and what they’ve sacrificed and welcomed because of us.  In that moment, it just hit me of how many stories and lives she must have lived and seen and experienced in her 82 years of living.

In my writing exercise, I just free-hand “3 word sentences — sometimes fragments” of what I remembered the most, cherished or believe her to be.  Below is just a snippet of those but, the one fragment that kept standing out was “biscuit making hands.”  My grandmother is best known for 2 things around our family — her biscuits and her sweet potato pies.  Growing up, she would cook a huge Southern dinner every Sunday and what I loved the best were her biscuits.  So much that I’m the only one — among her children, grand-children and great-grands — that is trying to learn how to bake them :-)  [side note:  No, they are nowhere as good as hers yet but, she eats them and give me praises :-)].  When I think of the many many times I’ve seen her hands work and shape the biscuit dough in her kitchen, I wanted to celebrate the beauty of her hands as an extension of her love for all of us.

biscuit making hands
saw through it
deep in faith
dreams for us
I see you
green-thumb to touch
pain pushed down
laughter fills room
pride in everything

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