My Mother's Mother

She had hair, jet black, that fell to her waist; even in her fifties, there were no greys in sight. She was stout, down-to-earth in stature, but she was largely grand.

In my mind's eye I see her gliding about town in all of her grace. The hushed gossip whizzing around her like mosquitoes in heat. She does not digress. No! She's the medicine woman, my mother's mother.

A natural practitioner of holistic healing, she gave me, us, our talents. God given and honorable are they, are we.

From the inside out she healed; so much so that it led to her own demise before I could lay eyes on such a woman. The one who birthed such an unforgettable, special woman.. Mom.. From my mother's mother.

"She was an alcoholic!" they said.

Was she? I don't think so. She was a healer. Yes, she drank. Drank in all of the spirits to heal herself of an invisible plague. To this day I wish I could've been there to heal her myself, but I was not yet concepted.

The look and feel of me, my aura, my healing comes from my mother. Where did she acquire such traits? My mother's mother.

I have a sickening sway in my hips that will make you dizzy if you're not careful and a latina flare that sparks when I speak. My face is more ethnic than foreign cuisine and my poise is more regal than the Eiffel and the tower in Rome that constantly leans.

If you know that I'm different and wonder where I'm from; if you see I'm gifted before we speak; if you appreciate me and all I have, then thank my mom and mother's mother.