Her songs were small instructions hidden in melody. “Keep your pockets empty,” she’d sing, “so you can use both hands.” She taught me to check under leaves for worms, to tilt a berry toward the sun before deciding, to share evenly so no one went home with the last sweet without exchange. Practical things, done so often they became rituals. We made jam sometimes, stirring until the kitchen smelled of boiled sugar and late summer. The jars lined up on the counter felt like trophies for patience.