My grandmother made salt cookies
in little boy and girl shapes
for us grandchildren to paint.

“They’ll decorate the Christmas tree,”
she said,
convincing us not to feel disappointed
we couldn’t ice and eat them.

I painted mine in a red dress,
my favorite church outfit then,
white stockings,
black shoes — perfection.

My doll had no hair at first.
I felt embarrassed
that she was supposed to be me
and bald.

I shouldered the weight of needing to be pretty,
as I had always been told to be — awkwardly.
Wasn’t I just pretty
because God made me?

My grandmother dipped her brush,
painted two curls at the temples of my doll
and said,
“That’s how we deal with that.”

I also had trouble with the eyes.
She painted the face a start-over shade
and used two tiny black dots
to compensate.

My ornament hung proud from a string
where she was pinned to dry.

I helped the other children paint theirs,
showing them the trick to hair and eyes
my grandmother taught me.

That is how wealth, love, pain,
and legacy
build.

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