Frederick, MD

Veins Like Roots

My grandmother's hands seem so brittle from across the room. Until she grabs my fingers and reaches to kiss my cheek, welcoming me. Her grip is strong and neither of us want to let go. For a moment I can feel a part of what those hands have felt. Nearly a century of love in her life lines. Blood runs through her veins, nutrients through the roots of a forest. No matter how many new yards she was transplanted in, she would adapt to the soil. Arms held the rope swing outback that the kids would play on. 11 seeds sprouted, needing the comfort of her shade. Drinking from her when it rained. And when they grew and it was time to uproot, her love was in the soil that they would plant their seeds.
And when all was said and done, she rests her limbs in the nook of their trunk until everything is together again.

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