on the floor of my grandmother’s bathroom, there is a heater spitting blue gas flames into the damp air.
i am about three years old.
i am not afraid of winter howling outside, trying to claw its wet way in through warped window frames.
my granny lifts me from the warm, fragrant water onto the cold edge of the roll top bath.
‘careful, ouma’s got you’.
small feet happily balanced, i am taller than her for a moment—my favourite part—my arms find the papery curve of her neck. i cling to her; my face inches away from all the softness that walks out of her mouth whenever she says my name.
she covers me in baby powder from my toes to my head—a grandmother’s talisman.
years later, whenever i am asked to describe my favourite smell, i say ‘baby powder and the smell of rain’.
in that small bathroom, her arms are still firm and strong, and i am still able to trust being lifted up and held safe.
— my granny’s arms were soft and strong | i was held.
© Liezel Graham 2020.
Photograph by Siddarth Bhogra.