Her hands are thickly wrinkled but strong. Gramma is a small woman, yet her hands seem large enough to cup all of me. As she washes my hair, her hands cover my face. The curve where her index finger and thumb meet brace my forehead. A barrier against the cup of water she pulls from the old ten-gallon lard bucket filled with bathing water. She rinses me. She washed all ten of her children in this cold tub... this way... many cousins... and now me. The drenching warmth soaks into my scalp. Her hands knead the soap out of my black curls.
Gramma's hand cups my forehead against the water again; her finger tips touch my ears. Her grip is firm. The knuckles gnarled from years of tortilla making, farming and finely detailed seamstress work, yet the meat of her fingers are plump with aged skin. I am pulled back a bit by the weight of her reaching over, dipping the cup into the bucket of water, dousing my crown... reaching over to dip the cup, she brings me back again. I won't fall while Gramma has her hand on me.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Saturday Morning
I fell asleep early last night... I usually go to bed around 3AM. Insomnia. Today, I woke up at dawn but didn't want to get out of bed. All I wanted to do was hug my little girl like a teddy bear. What's wrong with that? It is Saturday after all. Then, I wondered why this little one was in my bed.
She stirred, then settled. Her little face visible between the blanket and her arm thrown across her chin. She slept with her lips parted. Hey eyes gently closed, as if they would bloom open the way morning glories do at dawn. Her deeply brown skin is tanned from a week of heat wave swimming and her tiny hairs have all been bleached honey blond from brown. She was fuzzy like a teddy bear. I kissed her smooth bronze cheek, so as not to wake her, hugging her gingerly. My giant boy lumbered into my room. His gait sounds, naturally, like the stomping of giants.
"Mom, I'm hungry -oh yeah and I finished Communion," he said about the book he'd been reading late last night.
Time to make the papas.
She stirred, then settled. Her little face visible between the blanket and her arm thrown across her chin. She slept with her lips parted. Hey eyes gently closed, as if they would bloom open the way morning glories do at dawn. Her deeply brown skin is tanned from a week of heat wave swimming and her tiny hairs have all been bleached honey blond from brown. She was fuzzy like a teddy bear. I kissed her smooth bronze cheek, so as not to wake her, hugging her gingerly. My giant boy lumbered into my room. His gait sounds, naturally, like the stomping of giants.
"Mom, I'm hungry -oh yeah and I finished Communion," he said about the book he'd been reading late last night.
Time to make the papas.
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