Giuseppina – my Italian immigrant Grama, who adopted me, held two jobs, had a third-grade education,
lived through the Depression – you step into my body. I’ll feel a little tug.
I’ll be cracking eggs into a bowl, you are there with me baking bread, I feel your hands over mine,
punching the bread dough back down in the bowl.
I can see you on my way to church, putting on your hat and coat, pulling gloves over calloused hands,
putting on your one good pair of shoes. Your rosary beads clink on the church pew while you pray.
I blink, feel your fingers over mine while I hang laundry, I hear you singing Ave Maria on wash day,
just like when I was a child.
At night I watch the news, hear your voice say how the world has changed,
while you mend socks and embroider.
Later, while riding in my car, you’re next to me peeling the skin off a fresh apple, it falls into your lap gracefully in one piece. Complaining about my job, having to work while going to school, I feel a jab to my ribs.
You were not there to see me handed my college diploma, but I felt you next to me on the stage.
As a middle-aged woman distraught, going through a bitter divorce, I felt you nudge me out the door, your hand holding mine, walking me into the sunshine, determination on our faces, the wind blowing through our hair.