Hands

Everywhere I look I see my grandmother.  I see her in the hand sewn things we have around our home.  I see her in her beautiful penmanship in the letters she wrote to me in UT. I see her in my children when I make her fudge.  I see her in my cooking without measuring.

It stinks and is wonderful all the time.  I can tell stories about her.  I can remember her.  But I can't go talk to her. 

Not a day goes by that I do not think about my grandmother.