The Language Before Words

My mother bathes her mother’s feet. She kneels in quiet reverence, Raising the one who raised her. Hands cupping water as if it were holy. Her hands speak a language older than words. The language spoken by those who had not yet formed their own speech- love, poured out in gesture. My mother is light in shadowed rooms, She moves like mercy, She gives like breath. In her presence, I remember how to be whole. She ministers through touch, Anointing without oil, Healing without command. My mother is light before the dawn, Love that does not boast, Life that does not end. In her is a glimpse of the divine.