Hands

My grandmother left me her hands—
not the hands themselves, but their habits:
the way they fold laundry,
the way they test water,
the way they hover, uncertain,
over a phone that never rings anymore.

​

I used to think I'd inherited nothing.
No house, no name that opens doors,
no language I speak without translating first.

​

But watch me fold a towel.
Watch me test the bath before I step in.
Watch me hover.