crochet communion and other words written in stitches

i never understood my grandmother.  she lived with us off and on (while i lived at home off and on) for a few years.  often she was in the way, apologizing for not being in the way, or looking on in such a way to make us all think she was going to get in the way very soon.  there are many things about my gran that i never tried to get my mind around, and many things i simply couldn't.  i came from her, but i never connected to that part of my past.  when i tried to chat with her i couldn't  get past the tired stories and complaints.  she loved to read, and so i'd buy the thickest history tomes i could find.  she devoured them.  i wanted to talk about what she'd read, but her tired stories were the only ones that surfaced.  even after a library's worth of books, she couldn't stop talking about the slights.

when i was quite young in an effort to connect with me she tried to teach me how to crochet.  we began with a tiny little needle and some floss-like yarn.  doilies were on the menu.  but doilies were not my thing, and my hands weren't deft enough for the tiny needle and thread.  i gave up quickly.  it seemed like an antiquated craft of a bygone era--i had stuff to do, and blankets could be bought in stores.  what did i need hand-work for?

several years ago my gran died.  i loved her--she was my grandmother.  but i wanted to like her.  i wanted easy laughter, bits of unsolicited advice, and moments of matriarchal compassion.  right before she died she sent me an apology for the time we'd just spent together--it had been unpleasant and she knew the inevitable was upon her.  her words were rough and kind--she was a washer-woman and the words of a washer-woman were all that would do.  she died a few days later.

i never had a chance to reply to her letter--my response was written, but never posted.

a few years later i came across pictures of some beautiful crochet work--brightly colored swirly hexagons in mustard and green and turquoise.  i was enamored by the even stitches and rich colors.  i wanted to learn.  as i looped the yarn around the needle and the hexagons began to take shape i thought of my grandmother.  she wanted me to do this--to pass on the language of evenly tied knots that talk about family and home and loss and relationships.  as the blanket took shape i began having a conversation with my gran for the first time in my life.  no words were spoken.  no words were needed.  

as i work with her needles and fresh yarn, every stitch i make is a moment with her.  i accept her apology.  she forgives me.  she tells me about her childhood in west texas.  i tell her of my adulthood in north texas.  she admits her fears.  i admit mine.  i come to terms with my grandmother's inability to communicate with me because i have found a way to remember her--not for what i wanted her to be, but for what she was:  a woman whose washer-woman hands knotted a language of beauty her mouth never could.

i think i like my gran.  we are more alike than i knew.