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Back to Issue 3 - Fall/Spring 2013
Hands
Allison Huffman
I remember the faint song humming in the background,
the smell of fresh coffee, eggs
caramelizing in the pan
and the bacon oozing and popping grease.
The way her petite pale hand glides along the paper
grasping the pen as her wrist swirls and rocks
in a gentle motion while she writes down the orders,
those hands which had seen many things were wrinkled,
her nails coated with a beautiful teal, almost as blue
as the moon when it's in full cycle.
She gravitates around the room, glancing at the cups,
checking to see if a refill is needed as she travels
the tables. She gives a playful smile as she passes
along to the kitchen. I can still remember
those petite, beautiful, wrinkled hands, those
I adored and miss dearly. Her voice
whispering the question, "What would you like to eat?"
still lingering.
