As I watched her cut the turkey. Her hands moving like a locomotive. All the drive with direct intentions. Wanting to do nothing more than to serve the present hearts. Wrists wrapped in forgiveness. Wrists that have bent backwards like iron boards melted into spinal chords. Giving light to the veins tangling up here telephone pole arm ensuring that each moment she makes is electrifying. Work horse working at the jaw bit. Feeling freedom elbow down. Fingernails maroon layered. Tattered with stories of long days between selfless moments. Her hands had touched more lives than god can count. We lose touch of ourselves. To find star points in the sky waiting on us to make the first move. Her fingers bolted through gods carpet creating stars, moving the moon, and painting constellations over our heads. I am thankful for her giving. Not that she gave her life for me, no that was taken, by medical books and dictionary definitions. It is that she gave me life, so I shall bleed life through my pours. My bones will tremble with her presence releasing all forms of earthquake. 2 years ago. She did not cut the turkey. Her hands too weak to hold the air above her lips. Two years and your name has still not left my lips.