In the looking glass

I see

my grandma’s arms

where mine should be,

soft pillowy loaves with dimpled elbows.

My vanity scoffs and stares at what’s reflected there

expecting rows and rows of plank pose

would have sculpted mine taut and sinewy,

defined

by a younger me.

I’m humbled

they conform

to a shape designed before I was born

worn by those preceding me,

rounded rivers of wrinkles travel down vein lines

speckled with spots from sunshine,

cradled in etchings and creases,

carrying handed-down pieces:

baskets of bread and laundry loads,

bowls of broth and buckets of frothy milk and chicken feed,

hand stitched embroidery,

recipes from the old country.

My mother’s arms adorn me too

reaching out and peeking through

bearing books and artistry  

and babies, and babies  

and baby born still

griefs and joys carried and buried

in infant fists

and grocery lists,

In pots and pans her hands persist,

in homemade pies and handmade dresses, wiping noses, tears, and messes,

packing lunches in a row,

waving from the front window.

I’m honored to wear these accessories

fashioned, in part, by ancestry

a canopy of family tree

bending great grand boughs to me.

I’m disarmed

by the arms

now in my care

weathered and rare,

ample mothering limbs to climb

rising to this age and time

strength and substance

redefined

holding grace

lifted in a long embrace