Grandma’s house sits on a small hill. Withstanding scorching summers and frigid winters, her house will stand until the end, just like her legacy. She has always been a woman of strength, a child of refugees with roots cultivated through war and strength. As the eldest of the family, she helped place food on the table to feed the mouths of her hungry siblings. Handcrafting paintbrushes and spiral notebooks in factories, cheap rough bristles and wire springs pricking her skin. Child hands of silk quickly wore down to rough leather, like the old couch that sits in her living room. As years dragged on, luck has been a firefly, flickering here and there. Now, Grandma’s delicate boxes of pine incense are stacked on the wooden table waiting to be packaged. Crease by crease, we fold flat, polished cardboard and add to the fragile skyscraper. Jenga Outside the workhouse where the birds chirp and the dragonflies hum, her workers drag the pine branches into the open to soak up the sun’s rays. Evergreen needles rustle as they glide across the ground. The visiting grandchildren stand by their crouched parents who dig out familiar weeds. Fumbling with their toys, they watch their parents sweat beneath the blazing sun, itching to help but knowing they can offer no strength. Then Grandma walks onto the yard, her bare hands hanging loose by her side. Workers turn their heads and bow, smiles brighten their eyes. She greets them traditionally: “Have you all eaten yet?” Crouching amongst her family, she grips the rough heavy handle of the homi, dirt hiding beneath her thick nails. While everyone shields their hands with garden gloves, Grandma picks up the tool as if it were a pencil to write with. Her hands work feverishly, ripping out the invasive weeds and flinging them behind her back. Grandma doesn’t leave behind footprints, only sweat and tears to lighten our burden. Through all the exhaustion, her hands hold warmth and comfort when they embrace mine. She tells me, “Life goes by too fast, so you must enjoy what you do.” She prays our hands will be busy scribbling with pencils, not calloused from work. When a family friend hard of hearing comes to visit her white house of musky pine, Grandma traces each letter of her words on the palm of his hands. With patience, she pauses after each letter to ensure he understands. If the entire world was like her, there would be no need for heaven. She frequently visits the community hall where she trudges in with bags of rice stacked in her arms. Grandma carefully places them in a man’s hold, thanking him while fixing her wool vest. “Give these to the families who can’t afford their own meals,” she says. * “Your Grandma’s always like that, looking after others rather than herself even after all she’s been through,” mom says. Her eyes stare into space and she nods ever so slightly. “She’s always telling us to share. Give what we can. There’s no point in being selfish.” As I look at my own hands, I trace the grooves that faintly streak my palm. Fingers are relatively thin and long, nothing like Grandma’s. The only markers of work are my tadpole fingertips; lightly hardened skin from pressing on cello strings. And when I hold my mother’s chill hands, her fingers are even slimmer and longer. Same tadpole fingers, but much more evident. More skilled. Our hands seem to become less scarred, less worn with each generation. Delicate yet still powerful. Thank you Halmeoni.