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.