The Hands That Hold
Harvests of earth, silence, and time

I have learned the art of gathering —
not only apples bruised with sweetness,
not only grain folded like gold into sacks,
but also the moments that slip
like minnows through the fingers.
I gather silence from a room
after laughter has left it.
I gather the smell of rain
as it lifts from the pavement.
I gather words that were almost spoken,
fragments left behind
like torn edges of letters.
My grandmother gathered differently.
She bent to the earth with patience,
cupped tomatoes as if they were small suns,
stacked jars in the cellar,
their lids shining like coins.
Her gathering was survival,
but also devotion —
to the idea that nothing good should be wasted.
I carry her lesson into the invisible.
I collect the faces of friends
I have not seen in years,
the sound of their names
still warm on my tongue.
I store them in jars of memory,
tight-sealed,
ready to be opened when winter comes.
To gather is not to hoard.
It is to honor.
It is to touch each fragment,
to say: you matter,
you are part of the whole.
So I keep gathering —
the late light on a wooden floor,
the hush of dusk before snow,
the pulse of a hand I once held.
And one day,
when my own hands falter,
I hope someone will gather me, too —
not for keeping,
but for remembering.
About the Creator
Alain SUPPINI
I’m Alain — a French critical care anesthesiologist who writes to keep memory alive. Between past and present, medicine and words, I search for what endures.


Comments (2)
I am drawn in the connection between you gathering and keeping and your grandmother harvesting and canning. "I am learning" and "I carry her lesson" and "a hand I once held" tie the thoughts together. This poem feels warm like the end of summer. I really like it!
To gather is to honor and remember. What a beautiful sentiment. 👏👏