Grandma’s Hands

of all the things you’ve forgotten about

I don’t remember my grandmothers’ hands—their touch or smell. I’m sure that knowing any of their wrinkled fingers would change something about me, anything about me, maybe everything about me. One of my grandmothers passed when I was too young to remember anything more than her casted body resting at the end of a long aisle—stiff and manicured. I asked about her many times following her burial, unable to grasp the concept of death and dying. I just wanted to see her. I only know this particular fact because my parents relayed their own memories of my 2002 confusion. My other grandmother, so comfortable staying where she’s been for the past few lifetimes, hasn’t seen me in at least 10 years. And though each December she sends an assortment of homemade Christmas cookies, I don’t remember her hands—their touch or smell either.