Pulse of the Past

A poem composed by Isabelle (Year 12)

I remember the way my grandma's hand felt when she held mine,
cool, thin, and laced with lavender.
She’d reach for me without saying a word,
her fingers wrapping around mine
like they had done a hundred times before.

There was something about her hands, though,
a kind of quiet strength in the way she held on,
like she was passing something unspoken
through that simple gesture.

There is a distinct feeling that comes with

holding the hand of an elderly person,
a sensation that lingers long after the touch is gone.
It is not merely a physical texture;
the paper-thin skin stretched delicately
over bones and tendons,
but an echo of a well-lived life,
of countless moments
etched into each crease and wrinkle.

The cool-to-the-touch skin,
almost translucent,
as if the years have worn it thin,
leaving behind a delicateness
that carries the weight of time.

As your fingers intertwine with theirs,
you feel the faint tremor,
a gentle reminder of their fragility.
It’s a tremor that speaks of a heart
that has beaten through decades
of laughter and tears,
of hands that have held onto joy and sorrow
in equal measure.

The bones are prominent beneath your grasp,
protruding like the ridges of a well-worn path,
each bump and hollow telling a silent story,

of strength and endurance.

There is a warmth, too,
that emanates from their hand,
a warmth that spreads from their palm to yours,
transferring not just heat,
but wisdom;
a quiet assurance
that comes from having seen it all.

This warmth wraps around your own hand,
and in that moment,
it feels like an embrace,
a wordless comfort
that passes through generations.

Holding their hand triggers a sudden awareness
of the rhythm of their pulse,
faint but steady,
like the ticking of a clock,
counting down the moment
with a slow cadence.

It is a reminder of the fragility of time,
of the delicate balance
between the past and the present.
With each beat of their heart
comes an echo of their life.

The touch is more than a simple connection;
it is a bridge between what has been and what is.
A quiet moment of reflection,
a silent dialogue between youth and age,
between what has been lost
and what remains.

As you hold their hand,
you grasp more than just
a fragile piece of the present,
you are holding a fragment of history,
a tangible reminder
that every touch carries with it
the weight of a thousand untold stories.