14/09/2025
LITERARY | Grandparents Day Tribute
"When Her Hands Once Held Mine"
The mornings aren’t the same anymore. Lola used to be the first one up, humming softly in the kitchen, the scent of coffee filling the air. Now, she wakes later, moving slower, her hands trembling as she reaches for the bedpost. The woman who once carried me so effortlessly now struggles to lift herself from the mattress.
"Slipping through my fingers all the time…"
I reach out to help her, and for a moment, Lola hesitates—still trying to be the strong one. But her fingers, once steady and sure, now clutch mine like I’m the only thing keeping her upright. She leans into me as we take slow, careful steps. My childhood was spent running to keep up with her. Now, I walk at her pace, afraid she’ll fall if I let go.
Lola doesn’t talk as much anymore. The stories, the laughter—they come in quiet whispers now, as if even words take too much energy. I see it in her face; in the way she exhales after the smallest task. It’s not that she’s forgetting. It’s that her body is letting go.
"I watch her go with a surge of that well-known sadness… and I have to sit down for a while."
It’s cruel, really. How time takes and takes, never giving anything back. When I was younger, I thought Lola would always be strong. She was the one who could carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, who could chase after me, spin me around, and make everything feel safe. But now, it’s my turn to be strong for her, and I don’t know how.
I see it in the little things. The way Lola grips the railing tighter as she climbs the stairs. The way her spoon shakes as she brings it to her lips. The way she winces when she stands, pressing a frail hand to her back. These are things I never used to notice. Or maybe, I just never wanted to.
"The feeling that I’m losing her forever… and without really entering her world."
I should have paid more attention. To the way she always tucked me in at night. The way she squeezed my hand just a little tighter when she walked me to school. The way she always made my favorite meal when I had a bad day, even when she was tired. I should have memorized every little thing before time started stealing Lola from me.
Because I know how this ends.
I see it in the way Lola barely eats anymore. In the way, Lola sleeps more than she is awake. In the way Lola holds my hand a little longer, as if she knows, too.
But there is one thing time hasn’t stolen yet.
Every time Lola calls me Apo, I feel the warmth in her voice, the love woven into that single word. It makes me happy, even when everything else is slipping away. In that moment, I am still her beloved grandchild, and she is still the woman who raised me with gentle hands and a fierce heart.
At night, I sit beside her, listening to her breathing. It’s slower now, shallower. I watch her fingers, frail and thin, resting on the blanket. Hands that once held me close, now too weak to lift a teacup.
"Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture and save it from the funny tricks of time."
But time doesn’t wait. No matter how much I hold on, no matter how many times I whisper, I love you, please stay a little longer—Lola is slipping away.
And I am not ready.
I am not ready for the day when the chair Lola sits in will be empty. When Lola’s favorite blanket will remain folded, untouched. When I will call out for Lola and be met with silence.
I am not ready to live in a world where Lola no longer exists.
The hands that held me are slowly slipping through my fingers. And I can’t hold on tight enough to stop it.
So, I hold Lola’s hand a little tighter. I bring Lola tea before she asks. I sit beside Lola, even when she doesn’t say a word. I memorize Lola’s face, Lola’s voice, the way Lola looks at me like I’m still her whole world. Because I know the day will come when all I’ll have left are these moments.
And I don’t want to waste a single one.
And when that final morning comes—when her chair sits empty, and the quiet feels heavier than ever—I’ll find myself whispering the words I used to hum under my breath: “Slipping through my fingers all the time…” Because that’s what it feels like. Like no matter how tightly I held on, she was always gently slipping away, moment by moment, breath by breath. And now, all I have are the memories I didn’t realize I was making. The scent of her perfume on a blanket, the ghost of her laughter in the hall, the warmth of her hand fading from mine.
She may be gone, but the song plays on in me—soft, aching, and endless—reminding me of the hands that once held me, and how I’ll spend the rest of my life holding on to her, even as she slips through my fingers.
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Words by Dandy Angelo Bert Ganotice
