A world of her own

My mother told me about my grandmother.
Not the obvious things,
but the small, almost secret ones:
the curve of a wrist,
the quiet space between two fingers,
the way she entered a room
and rearranged the air around her.

She had a particular boldness,
the kind that never announced itself.
She chose the heavier gold,
the deeper stone,
the piece that held the light
a moment longer than necessary.
Not to be seen,
but because she liked the way it answered her.

The pieces I make
are not copies of what she wore.
They are answers to the stories,
for women who move through ordinary days
as if they held a private magic.

Not as memory,
but as light
that has found a new place to stay.