Sitting on the countertops of my

old apartment kitchen, I paid

close attention to everything that

my grandmother was doing and

exactly how she was doing it.

Her fingers pressed hard through

the dough and left an imprint for

a while, until it would slowly

rise back to its original form.

Everything she made had a part of

her in it. To this day her hands are

still so soft, as if she were wearing

some sort of silk cream all over

them. Whenever she cooked

something, the dough or flour

would get all over her knuckles,

but I could still see her glowing

skin underneath. Her skin seemed

crystal clear. I watched her hands

closely, seeing every single vein

underneath. Bracelets on her wrist

clanging together as her hands

shook. A sound so familiar.