Touch

Her touch was upon me again, from beyond the grave.  My grandmother's touch, gently caressing the top of my hand as if her intention was to preserve that moment in time between us.

The memory came upon me, today, as a whispered guide to that same hand upon my old dog.  Vision is mostly lost upon her fifteen years. She navigates by shadows and sound. My touch is her connection to the past and it calms her unsteady footsteps.

Some people are made for radio.  Not Grandma.  Her hands wove the spoken fabric. I can see her
actively talking.  I can see her in quiet contemplation; hands folded on the apron which she wore to protect the dress underneath. Grandma's best stories were the ones when she embraced me. I could feel the words as she spoke. Her belly would swell just before the funny part; her shoulders would raise in anticipation of a mystery and her hands accentuated every sentence.  Palms would upturn if there were secrets, fingers would clasp when all was well and the story had a happy ending. I learned my story telling from her.

It was challenging for her to multi task. Driving was always fraught with a potential fender bender because her hands kept talking.  Baking was constantly interrupted as she stopped to re read the hand written recipes and then exclaim "oh, goodness" with hands raised when she realized a mistake in the measurements.

Today, she speaks to me. Her words upon the breeze and I am once again in her embrace. The old
dog -calm in my lap and dreaming of stories of her own.