They say it's a zen exercize. Repetition. Tacticle. Soft wool. Colors. Rows bloom like flowers one after the other. Time to connect with friends. With ways of the past. Mothers. Babies. Loved ones. Warmth. Comfort. Protection. Deep sleep. Love. Chatting with sisters. An intimate affair. Daydreaming. Time to gab. Time to be silent. No awkward silences. The yarn fills them. No bordeom. Time to sort out worries. What was she thinking about as she knit this? Look how she took the knots from her furrowed brow and placed them into the fabric. The cloth that bind us. Heirloom treature. Beauty with age.
My grandmother crocheted a blanket for me when I was an infant. As I grew up it was always folded neatly on the end of my bed. Zig-zaggy rows of minty green, pink, yellow and white. (Blue? I don't remember blue though it must have been there.) Even in high school, I would still curl up under it on breezy summer days. The perfect weight for a nap. It's likely now sitting in a moldy box in my mother's basement.
I should call my grandmother today. She's in her 80s. Sick and living with my Aunt and Uncle near Detroit. She's the woman who in her youth played the ukelele! Who scratched my back with her long nails. I remember being shocked when one day, during my mother and father's divorce, she started crying. Her tears were black from her mascara. I had only seen something like that happen on television, and I recall thinking it meant the woman was bad. But there was my own grandmother, crying black tears. Was she bad too? I was confused. She ushered my brother and me upstairs as my mom and dad fought in the kitchen. We had just returned from celebrating my 10th birthday at Chuckee Cheese.
I don't talk about my dad very often. Sometimes people ask. Now that I'm older, they mostly don't. He's retired and living in a rural part of New York State. I haven't spoken to him since 1997. I've heard that since he retired he lifts weights to stay in shape. I am not sure if he helps out with my grandmother.
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