This old Bible, Grandma’s Bible,
pages filled with thumbprints left by her.
Though I cannot see them here, I know they are.
Her pages hold the evidence of turning, flipping, reading.
The tears and worn out corners mark the her presence, now departed.
Her life, the same; thumbprints of God.
Which now, beyond the darkened glass she sees.
Her sorrows measured by His thumb to bring her to His glorious end,
The end He knew before she ever started.
In memory of Grandma Cecil Wagoner, a grandmother I wish I had known. She passed from this life before I came into it.
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