Faith is my grandmother’s hand.
Lines trickling like little highways across her palm,
enclaves of creases etched onto her skin,
honest truths and prayerful wisdom
fashioned like a roadway map.
It’s not a Bible or a priest or God forbid
dreaded mandatory Sunday school
but wistful gazes and longing gestures
that dictate stories of a time
before you were born
when she could still trust the world.
Soft, deepened contours, stretching into a universe
trace every adventure, every exploit
in her eyes.
Faith is when she puts her hands up,
surrendering into my will, chuckling softly,
believing in something stupid
I’ve just uttered.
It’s when she shows me the river
behind the bend, around that crook in the road,
pointing at koi fish
raising her gauzy skirts up
to dip her knees into the water.
It’s when she lets me swim, even when
she knows it’s dangerous
and my parents will kill me
and I get colds easily
but with her laughing lines and her open palms
she doesn’t care.
She cheers me on as I paddle
away, into a damper world, where senses
are muffled, but I can still hear her mirth
over the rippling silence and
she grabs my own sodden hand
intertwining it with hers
lifting me up.
Faith is when she beckons me,
inviting, bright,
her shoulders, forearms, fingers,
her hands,
reaching toward me.