Hands

We sit at the table, done with dinner, waiting for the check. The remains of a feast were spread in front of us, a feast of food and culture. My grandparents had just flown in from Oregon, where our family reunion had taken place- near the gravesites of Grandfather, his wife, their son Charlie, who followed his mother after only three months due to whooping cough caught in the orphanage, and their grandson, dead in a farm accident while home from college.

I call him Grandfather, but only out of habit from hearing it - he was really my grandfather's father, the first to immigrate from Korea, sending for his wife and children after making money in Hawai'i and landing in Idaho. Later, after his wife died and the children were all older, all ten of them, he moved the family to Oregon, where his oldest daughter and her husband lived. She was much older than the rest of the children - her daughter was brought up like a sister to her aunt, only a year older than her. Granted, Auntie was one of the last children, but the gap was still large.

So I am sitting at the table with my grandfather, my grandmother, my mother, and two little brothers, who sit at the far end and experiment with the grill. We are at a Korean buffet, and are not allowed to play with anything at the table, leading to incidents with grills, candles, and many origami'd napkins. I sit next to my grandfather so as to help him eat - he is old, ancient to me, only a few years shy of a hundred.

Leaning in close, my lips brush his ear as I try to shout loud enough for him to hear me. He is nearly blind, cataracts covering his once expert eyes; a buzzing hearing aid in his ear, trying to make up for all the senses he has lost. I have to tell him my name before he can figure out who I am; my voice and face are so obscured to him. His mind, however, is still sharp - once he knows my name, he knows who my mother is, who my brothers are, that I am going to college. Most of the time he even remembers my major - better than a lot of the third and fourth generation, my generation, can.

"Grandpa," I shout, mindful of the looks the people at the next table over are giving me for daring to yell at my grandfather. "Grandpa, did you enjoy the reunion last week? How was your flight?"

He nods at me, more intent on eating - the food is good, and my mother and grandmother made sure he has enough on his plate. He cannot walk well enough to get his own food at a buffet; he has trouble keeping his balance even with a cane.

"Good." He returns to eating.

I look down at my hand on his arm, jacketed even in sumer's heat against the chills of old age. My hands are youthful, smooth, stained with ink, fingernails long and feminine. His hands are gnarled and wrinkled, fingernails short and almondesque. I still have a lifetime ahead of me, but his have lived a lifetime, have raised lives. From a farmboy sharpshooter to World War II fighter, aerospace engineer and father, his hands have done so much.

I lean against his shoulder for a moment, sighing, exhausted by the possibilities of what my hands can do, will do, and by the weight of what his have done. I have so much to live up to, such a legacy to carry on for the fifth generation. My grandfather has done so much - what will my granddaughter do?