10-4 Nonna

The police radio was playing when I walked in to her sun lit porch. I smelled bleach and coffee, Nonna's favorite tools for housework.
"Hi Honey, how are you?" she said, wiping her tan hands on her red and white embroidered apron. She kissed me on both cheeks. Then she reached for the I LOVE MY GRANDDAUGHTER coffee mug. Her hands were like gnarled branches; confident arched thumbs with fingers frozen in the shape of decades of labor. She had worked since she was seven years old in Sicily sewing police uniforms with her grandfather. "That's how I got my training," she loved to say.