My Nani had hands like the earth: coarse and calloused, warm and stained deep shades of crimson from the henna she used for her hair, like the rich clays of the desert I called my home.
My Nani had hands like grey-chipped sky: cracked and weathered, but capable of shrouding my smaller ones in her own.
My Nani used to tell me stories, about the life she left behind when she crossed the sea to be with me. Every gesture of those familiar hands - vibrant - painting over details that had faded like old silk saris.
We listened to the rain together, as I hid beneath her covers and waited for the Sonoran sun to return.
And my Nani would lift my hands, guide me outside, water droplets rolling off of our skin like kisses from heaven. With her hands, she tore scraps of newspaper, folding boats with deft movements, while I set them into the swirling water that sloshed above our submerged feet. Jeevan hai toophaan ke baad. There is life after the storm.
She held my hand, as the thunder bellowed and the pooling rivers carried the words from us - floating stories that no one would remember once time bleached them away.