My father’s mother was not the kind of woman
who would hold your hand or gently
stroke your cheek, her fingers stained
by cigarettes, roughened from years
of cleaning the houses of others.
When she came to visit, I remember her
cleaning our windows with a solution
she made of vinegar and water, wiping
the glass with sheets of crumpled newspaper.
She scared me a little. I knew love as snuggling,
reading together and baking oatmeal cookies.
Our house’s walls were thin, but held up with song.
It’s taken me decades to understand how
a devotion that smells of vinegar is also strong.