Daily Journal #139 - My Hands

I was stuck in traffic on the way to pick up Thing 1 and I noticed my hands on the steering wheel. My fingers are long and lean, my wrists small and my bones angular beneath my brown skin.  I realized that I have my grandmother's hands.

My grandmother died in 1998, one month before I graduated from Rice University.  She was 88 years old.  She was the mother of four children, her only daughter being my mother.  She never learned to drive a car and she never flew on an airplane.  She avoided escalators like the plague, and she struggled to sign her name - Soledad - on official documents.  She worked in a tortilla factory until she passed out from the heat and her health dictated she find a different job.  She was a devout Catholic who memorized her miselet church bulletins because she didn't know how to read.

She used to drink and smoke cigarettes before she found her religion.  She wore trucker hats, killed chickens with her bare heads, and had a live-in boyfriend from the age of 72 on.  She played her music loudly and loved to gossip with her friends over coffee and pan dulce.

She loved to cuss, paint her nails red and get her hair dyed.  Her dressy outfits always matched her accessories and if you interrupted her telenovelas, well...

I was my grandmother's youngest grandchild and as such held a coveted position in her heart.  She loved me beyond measure and called me her reina.  She literally cackled with joy when our car turned into her driveway and even as I type this I can feel her warm embrace.  She died 18 years ago and I miss her all the time.

But just yesterday I was reminded that I come from a long line of strong women.  And I happen to have my grandmother with me right now.

She had fingers that were long and lean, wrists that were small, and her bones were angular beneath her weathered brown skin.