washing feet

it began quietly / in the soft unassuming way
of an ordinary moment / that later unfurls
across time, casually blooming / and birthing
a sacred practice / quite by accident. for those last
precious months / it was our holy ritual / sweet,
like the tea and cake / we shared every second Friday.

and it was nothing fancy: just warm water for her feet
and massage / with scented almond oil / she was
so surprised, at first / that I’d want to touch her toenails,
gently rubbing oil into cuticles / and marvelling at how
her body / so soft / had known it must also grow tough,
in places / to traverse / countless miles of mothering.

after that first time / when I drove my Abuelita home,
she was glowing / pearlescent / bathed in the kind of love
that is unafraid / of old-lady feet / did you know she said,
in Spanish / some granddaughters / wouldn’t want to touch
their abuela’s feet / and I reached across / eyes on the road,
touching her leg / already aching / for every part of her.