" Hands on the Wall of a Church

I am full where I was empty—
My arms can hold no more.
I have found what I was looking for
Though what it is I cannot see.
What is invisible fills me
But it is not what you think,
Not God, not the saints, not angels.
I feel my mother’s hand
Touching this same wall.
I feel my grandmother’s hand
In the story my mother told
Of the summer day when her mother
Brought her to this church,
How they stood together and put their hands
To its wall, which was so big.
How my grandmother told my mother
That her own mother had done the same
So many years ago
All those years suddenly in this moment.
All those hands in mine
As I touch the wall of a church,
This church, here, hard, now. "

― Alberto Alvaro Ríos , A Small Story about the Sky