Never getting to meet her, she died before I was born.
A lady who many say I look like in the face and form.
Delicately she speaks now to me in her handiwork.
Which I hold gently like a book.
It speaks from her precious hands to mine,
like a path to my heart she tells a story of time,
and so much thoughtfulness and strength.
One might never know it from her lovely lace,
but she had much sorrow and loss to face.
Grandma and me talk in secret ways now,
as time and distance will allow.
I carry her in my heart in a sacred space,
knowing that in delicate lovely lace,
the light in my eyes, and a smile on my face,
are also hers and mine by love and grace.
Christine McClintock Hudspeth
Copyright 2011, Poetry of The Heart Collection