Gramma's Washing

     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.