Granny’s Hands

Granny’s hands are a gospel of their own

creased like old maps

that led no one astray.

They speak in quiet gestures

folding biscuits

mending seams

pressing prayers into foreheads

without a word.

Each finger remembers

the sting of cotton

the softness of a newborn’s cry

the way sorrow sits

when it has no place to go.

She never pointed toward the horizon

only the stove, the rocking chair

the garden

where heaven comes in small harvests.

Oh, mountain child

you will forget the stories she told

but not the way her hands

held your face

like it was a sacred thing

like it had always belonged

to something eternal.

And long after she’s gone

when you hold your own child close

you’ll find her there

in your fingers

in the way they remember

how to love.