Grandma had giant hands, tough, full of lines, scars, and yet her hands felt the warmest and safest. Her face had a light complexion which highlighted a strong chin, and almost a tint of light blue in her eyes. She did not look like all other grandma’s, I always thought she looked most adoring when she left her wiry grey and black hair free. Her father was from Sanora, Mexico, which is why she had slightly different features than most Navajo elder grandma’s. Early mornings while the air felt cool, muffled prayers could be heard -I would kneel beside her and sometimes fall back to sleep to the sound of her sobbing in our beautiful language of Navajo. When she walked into rooms people stood, faces brightened, her smile resembled light and it felt as though the whole world bowed to pay respect to the queen.
My early years where days were filled with mischief, play, and keeping my grandma’s hands full while my mother was often working. My father was rarely present at the time, though I often cried and held onto him when he visited. My only friend was imagination, and it ran as wild and free as my culture and people on reservations. Here is where I would often dream, though I did not know it at the time, those moments allowed me to think deeper than an average child.
Comments