MargenMy grandmother and I did not speak the same language. She came from far away when she was already old, and the few words we shared ran out quickly, like small change.
So we invented something else. She taught me to knead dough; I taught her the songs on the radio, moving my lips very slowly so she could copy me. We understood each other through our hands, through the flour, through the way she pushed the hair off my face before I noticed it was bothering me.
That last winter she hardly spoke any language at all. I would sit with her and hold her hand on the table, saying nothing, because we had never needed to say anything.
One day she squeezed three times, very faintly. I don't know what it meant. But I squeezed three times too, and from her face I knew I had answered right.