in memory of Fannie Watson
Grandmother's fingers are set in their ways.
They guide mine to the clam
in the warm, sticky mud.
I grab it,
while my red sneakers fill with water.
Grandmother's hands, creased, like crushed silk,
press and roll dough.
She gives me some to make my pies,
and I help her babysit.
She tells me, "Don't let Willa bend over,
or her nose will bleed."
Grandmother's hair reflects rays of silver.
We laugh as it slips through my
fingers like sand,
and I try once again,
to catch it,
and roll it into ocean waves.