Hungry for a Blessing

Today I hunger for a blessing, a hand on my chest, forgiveness for my small mindedness. I bravely search for beauty in the brokenness, the ache under the ribs, the emptiness that remains. Can I be more like the oak, who gently let's go of everything that is dear to her even as the wind turns to winter and only the thinnest of nectar flows through her veins? She mourns the passing of paper thin leaves bursting with color as I mourn the bruised and fragile skin of my grandmother's shins. What did grandmother bless when she sat in the wheeled chair, a watch on each bent wrist marking a time that no longer existed for her; the wooden spoon to stir the sauce, the oil rising to the top, the stains on apron that would not be washed away?