Nana was not liberal with affection. I have no memory of a tight squeeze or a warm embrace. When I kissed her cheeks she held held my hands like a genteel Victorian lady bidding adue. Ever the Matriarch; respected, revered, loved at a chilly distance. I read her austere veneer as judgment. In the blissful innocent days of childhood, before the voice in my heart registered self-doubt, I knew not to wait for invitation to climb into her lap and lay my heads against her shouder. I buried my face into her neck, sweet and soft as powder, her skin translucent. I traced the rivers and tributaries of her blue veins from forearm to the back of her hands. Her voice softened and she cooed a story of a loving turtle formed in the curl of her hand, She pinched me softly, so softly, like a kiss. " Pinch, Pinch Pinch."

Near the end of her life she spent her days in a chair watching television. I brought her coffee and toast, she held my hands a little longer when I kissed her soft cheeks. The image on the screen revealed hands holding hands, she sighed, talked of how this moved her to tears. She longed for the warmth of a hand touching hers. All the years I waited for an invitation to crawl back into her arms, the years of distance and reserve melted away. I combed her hair, washed her hands and feet with warm cloths. She was the velvet soft powder, translucent, white shoulders.