My little Grandma’s arthritic hands, her shuffling feet - bunions pushing through dime-store slippers - and me - A little scared girl at the table by the window: I absorb my Grandma, whole, into my skin.
“Yeat! Yeat! Yeat!”
Old wives’ tales, years of tears, the dead - not forgotten, but carried, heavy - filling the room - And sadness, never spoken. I am in that room, with Grandma - with Ma - with sunshine, old curtains, a dirty oilcloth: silent, watching: I sense the yearning to be set free.
“Yeat! Yeat! Yeat!”
Cabbage, tomatoes, sour salts and Slavic sounds sizzling into Old World Soup and me - sipping in the New World - I absorb my Grandma, whole,into my heart.
“Yeat!” “Yeat!” “Yeat!”
Love is not spoken here, but still, I hear it: I hear - in foreign tongue - “I love you.” Quiet, inside the words.
TheWisdomYears.org 