Gentle Hands

parents stove

I believe there is something

to this thing we call living

as I sit and watch the bare and naked branches

of a weeping willow dance in the wind

and the corpses of corn husks below –

I envision my father

In old, worn jeans, playing in the dirt

his wrinkled hands gently wrapped around a tomato

I hear the clapping of the oil

as he places a breaded green tomato

in a cast iron skillet

and “Hey Good Lookin” sifting

through the speakers on the stereo.

I’m brought back to the kitchen

of my parents’ home

where my father made

fried green tomato sandwiches

and I was just a girl in pigtails

whose small hands could barely wrap

around the bread.

smiling up at my father

as tomato seeds smiled down my chin

And as 35 edges closer

and I sit here amongst the

dead leaves

and the remnants of another summer

that has come to pass

I wonder how many sandwiches have been molded

by those wrinkled, gentle hands

and how many more opportunities I have

to eat those fried green tomato sandwiches with him.

Yes, there is something

to this thing we call living.

©Image & Poem by Kristian L. Weigman
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

13 Responses to Gentle Hands

  1. Sadje says:

    A beautiful and loving poem.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Wonderful words of cherished moments. Well said.❤

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Erin says:

    A beautiful poem. A joy to read.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. WendyMegget says:

    Beautiful! I love the theme woven through. And I love fried green tomatoes… :o)

    Liked by 1 person

  5. The V Pub says:

    Beautifully sentimental 😊

    Liked by 1 person

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