Judy, my sister, my twin,
Now walks shoulder high beside me,
Stooped and tired,
Moving into age ahead of me, firmly grasping her books,
Her small, barely-lined hand fitting snugly into mine.
Her hands create masterpieces,
That tower above her,
Creations that we and the world applaud.
Creations slowly emerging from some deep, hidden place
Where none of us has been;
Her own private well of creative wisdom.
Her hands clap with joy at the sight of our wooded drive and forest home,
At MacDonald’s golden arches,
At Creative Growth.
Her hands, untrained, unskilled in sign,
Communicate and share,
In a silent language of their own
That weaves beauty in old colors and new forms,
As in distant childhood, hands clapping unheard,
Rhythms mirroring our heartbeats.