The Best Part of Me

My Arms

I have never really liked
my arms, so similar to my grandmother’s–Germanic, stocky, hardworking, thick; born of
farm work, school rooms,
and gardens of flowers.

A bit too fleshy too droopy
these unsung limbs of mine
have climbed trees, ladders, and rocks; they have carried books to school and from the library
to a grandson awaiting
a bedtime story.
They have held a ballet pirouette,
swung a hockey stick,
embraced my sweet husband,
and lifted my children from their cribs. They have been ushered down aisles and
they have cradled my dying parents.

Tanned and just mildly toned, they have been pocked with poison ivy, marred by Florida mosquitoes,
scratched by cats and holly bushes,
bruised by unintended collisions,
and jostled in crowed school hallways.

These same arms grabbed in joy by friends,
jangle my mother’s silver bangles
pilot my bike into the woods,
raise the telephone to my ear
stir pots of summer tomato sauce,
feed the fur folk of our home
serve as sleeve holders for sweater warmth and comfort
and swing wide in story telling, punctuating a tale.

Yet while I lament their aging,
noting spots, flab, and folds,
they serve me faithfully:
sturdy, solid, and strong,
propelling me (boldly!) into my future.

--Mrs. Campbell

( I wrote this in response to my students' getting-to-know-you assignment, our first piece of writing of the school year. Our inspiration? This book.)