The Hands of my Grandparents

originally posted on November 23, 2019 on WordPress.

“She moved through the garden like it was an extension of her body.” – Willie J. Jennings from The Christian Imagination : Theology and the Origins of Race

My papa pours life into his garden.

I am a linage of farmers, yet I have lost the ability to give life to plants.

Hands that cared for the soil, held me as a baby.

Hands that cooked meals for soldiers, that tended Japanese gardens, that parachuted through the air out of planes.

Hands that made ume, dried shiso, pickled vegetables.

Gardening was not just a job, it was a passion.

Hands that made me musubi, that made me hot coco, that played uno with me.

Hands that taught me how to shuffle cards.

Hands that were wrinkled and worn. Full of memories, pain, resilience, wisdom.

Hands that serve high school cafeterias.

Hands that cradled bowling balls and bowled strikes.

Hands that loved to golf.

Hands that held mine and felt so big.

Hands that survived incarceration camps.

Hands that did nothing wrong yet were punished by the country they called home.

Hands that boarded up cracks between the wooden planks that made the barracks where they lived. And hands that carried suitcases, unsure of what they would need or how long they would be gone.

Hands that still hold trauma. Hands that hold mine.

I am held up by the hands that raised me. The hands that poured love into me. I carry the trauma those hands endured and live out the dreams they never thought to imagine for themselves.