My grandmother’s hands are calloused, worn, and hardened from years of work.
Spending time slicing apples and peeling tangerines — acts of care that speak louder than a simple “I love you.”
Her hands dry, her fingernails short, her knuckles bruised.
Some days, I’m sure that I will never be certain of her love.
I will always wonder if she ever truly loves me.
Yet even without her spoken words, her worn hands declare those three simple words for me.
Shouting them from the mountains for everyone to hear:
“I love you.”
