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.
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