The Hands

The hands used to take me to the umbrella shop, to the butcher’s, to the bakery, and to the ballet studio, 
while my mother was at work, with putting me on the back of the bicycle.
The fingers turned a hundred pages of the books the hands bought for me, 
fairy tales, old tales, and novels, and pointed the numbers on the fluorescent multiplication table.
When my grandma was absent, the hands put a pot on the stove and boiled instant noodles 
with lots of cabbage for a secret snack between us.
The hands remember me, even though his vision and hearing, and all episodes are gone, 
hold my hands, tighten and loosen, and make gentle smiles on his face, and on my face. 
Only through the warmth we connect each other. 
I still have the warmth, which keeps me away from his place. 
The hands never let me go.