You see all my light.
She remembers a time before me.
She remembers a time before cell phones and HDTV and internet and me looking down at my phone instead of at her face.
She remembers pound cake recipes and what to do when my grandfather lost his fingers to the bite of a band saw and how to cut my father’s hair when his feet couldn’t even touch the kitchen floor and the shape of my tiny hand wrapped around hers, my lungs like the wing beats of a hummingbird on fire, long before I should have seen the light of day.
She remembers family. She remembers work. She remembers a time when her hands held things together better than the rusty ones she has now.
She remembers putting my father in the ground. His ashes are caught in her tear ducts. I see them every time she looks at me and sees his nose on my face, and the waste of his life in my eyes.
She remembers all of it. Stories fall from her lips like spun gold.
But today I said, “I’m your granddaughter.”
And you love my dark.
Stay tuned for our Special Guest, Tori’s, No Rules Friday next week.