What Her Hands Never Said

She didn’t say “I love you” in ways that stories like to write.
She argued. She stitched. She criticized. She sewed.

She made quilts out of the scraps of our childhood clothes—
Hands busy at the sewing machine.
Hands that taught me my creative blood runs deep.

We didn’t talk much, and when we did, it was sharp.
But now I see her more clearly.
In cardinals. In moths.
In my own mannerisms I didn't know were hers.
She still visits.

I don’t carry her in grief so much anymore.
I carry her in light.
In acts of service.
In the love that didn’t say itself,
but wrapped around us anyway.

A labor of love—stitched quietly,
like everything else she gave.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai