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  • Writer's picturecamillesuzannecamp

My Grandmother's Feet

By. Camille Campbell

My grandmother slips off

her bulky crocks in the

evenings and tells the story

of her life.

Shadows play on the creases

and blemishes

of her feet,

every scar is a crinkled page,

every mark is a stamp on her

everlasting passport.

My grandmother’s feet are

the adventure map of her life.

My grandmother’s feet are

hard work on the farm,

working from dawn to dusk,

not seeing more than the same

gray skies and plain fields,

She tells me the story,

of her, a brave young woman,

whose spirit called her

and whose feet carried her

over blossoms of hope

to an adventure that

she yearned for

away from the farm.

My grandmother’s feet are

the volunteer projects

she worked in Africa,

stacking bricks so they would

one day become schoolhouses

for kids to learn a world beyond

their own.

My grandmother’s feet are

like the mountains she climbed

the joints beneath her battered skin,

moving like tectonic plates.

The mountains

are the sculptor of her feet,

forever converging.

My grandmother’s feet are

like the great wall of China,

the pathway of history,

painting her feet

as if they were

terracotta tablets,

the carriages from the Ming dynasty,

the clanks of porcelain,

the path to the forbidden city.

My grandmother’s feet are

like the artifacts that she photographed,

in Egyptian tombs,

the Temple of Osiris,

the treks throughout the Sahara desert,

the ruins of the world.

They are history printing its

story, they are journeys scribbled

across her ankles.

My grandmother’s feet are

her years of work, her life,

earned not by jewels,

but by memories.

My grandmother’s feet are

an adventure map of her life.


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