i well over small intimacies

mother sprinkles chamomile
baby powder over me—
a fallen snow absent
numbing chill. i say,
“just like grandma.”
her name a flickered
remembrance upon
my heart: those aged
hands massaging relief
deep inside the sole.
the years i watched
this practice before
placing her feet
in white socks,
then white shoe—
i wondered then
as i do now—is
your soul alleviated
now?

The beginning of this was written yesterday/finished today. The smallest thing, baby powder, apparently has the power to undo me. I don’t cry, but the welling inside, whoa. i’m thankful God lets me write poems about all these mundane, everyday memories. My grandma would say, “who would want to read that, Julia?” I would say, “I  don’t know, Grandma, but watching  you do this was a touch of God’s presence in the middle of whatever news broadcast or mystery show or thought in my head. It made me still, savor the moment. You’ve impacted my life in simplest ways you’ve never known.”

but she does now. and i miss her so. love you, grandma.

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