By Carri Kuhn
I watch the steady stream of water
pouring into the jug,
early morning sun
reflecting off the glass.
It is beautiful,
the way the water fills the jug
without effort or thought,
or calculation.
It does what water does,
filling,
being poured out,
nourishing,
holding light.
And I think of my grandmother.
People say I look like her.
My brother says I have her hands.
I like hearing these things,
like to think of the way
perhaps,
my fingerprints carry the lines and whorls
of her path through the world.
I like to think
maybe,
that as I look out from these eyes
she looks with me.
“See that, notice this,” she says.
And I pay attention
to every quiet word.
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