Grandma’s Hands

She sat in that way Ruby’s sometimes do when they were resolved to choose themselves. At least this Ruby did. My eyes darted from her calm looking, pensive hands, to her smiling, uneasy chuckle. Her teeth gleamed at me. We sat there in silence for a moment, or two. The black cast iron pan sautéed yellow squash, with peppers, oil, and the smell of garlic permeating all the atmosphere in that kitchen at the back of the shotgun house on Miro Street. The pop pop popping roused us out of our dreams. Grandma pushed her bony frame out of her chair. She headed over to the stove walking hard on her heels (I walk just like her.). Turns her food with a big wooden spoon. Shuts the eye off. Grabs a white plate with a secret chip from the shelf above the stove. Takes a fork from a glass jar that is filled with other forks, and spoons, and butter knives, and one, two, three, one, two, three. She did a weary waltz. I watched her hands. They were so veiny—not unlike the way my hands look today. Hardworking, long lived, veiny hands. I know now, but I didn’t know then, at the age of seven, that she was the strongest person I’d ever know. She sat back down with her plate of yellow squash. I saw the steam rise above our heads, dancing in spirals. I watched her right hand take the pepper shaker. Shake, shake the pepper. Dots of black on yellow. I watched her eat.