I remember my great-grandmother’s hands. So capable, big and warm, covered in freckles, ready to comfort, unbending the clawed rigidity to softly wipe my tears.
I remember her powerful, beautiful mind, endless with patience, tirelessly reading my favorite story over and over from a tattered book. I remember her, trapped in a creaky body, moving slowly around the kitchen in a sort of graceful dance with pain, cooking, cleaning, all the while humming, singing to herself.
In that time and space, to my child eyes, she seemed timeless and invincible. Now all I have are the sweetest memories of her. And the photographs of her looking so lovely and so fragile. She was one of the lucky ones – no falls, no breaks, no fractures. Instead, she quietly, silently, withered, shrank onto herself, rounded back and all.