Her strong arms. Making ice cream in the gank. Twisting the bucket in the snow. Left, right, left, right. Wringing out washing to roll through the mangle. Rolling out, punching down dough. Pulling up weeds from her enormous garden. Harvesting, husking, and canning her crop.
Her strong hands. Twisting tringles, rotating dough into rolls, snipping keilki, pinching veraniki. Struggling with script to send in shaky, misshapen letters the simple words of love from her heart.
Her strong heart. Playing dominoes, knipsbrat, and cards - not to win, just to connect. Overflowing in song: Immer freulich... "Always cheerful, always cheerful. Sunshine all around we see. Full of beauty is the path of duty. Cheerful we may always be."
I went back once. To the homestead long after she left. There in the attic, I saw her handiwork. Sponge-painted fruit on the ripped-up linoleum floor.
Now, at long last, after her hundred years' work, she is finally, truly at rest. In the strong arms, the strong hands of her simply loved Saviour and Lord.
"I remember Grandma."
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