My hands now remind me of my grandmother's.
Knuckles, veins protruding under soft crepe.
With them, she prayed the rosary, sewed slippers out of borgana,
played the organ in her never used living room,
where horse head bookends sat on the table
in front of the red-velvet sofa on which her Bible lay.
I miss her sweet voice that would call out my name,
her gentle words, never used against another,
her quiet manner, so much like my father's,
her sweet pickles served with rye bread and hard butter,
Life she served in the opaque white cereal bowls.
In her basement, Liberace albums, high heels for dress up,
a ring toss game made from rubber canning seals.
I miss our visits to the cemetery to visit my grandfather.
Mostly I miss her hands folded in the front pew,
storming heaven with her prayers.


© by Angela Hoffman.
Used with the author's permission.