Sunday, August 10, 2014
My youngest child never knew my grandmother. She passed away when he was a baby. But that doesn't mean she didn't leave him a memory-something just for him from a great-grandmother who wanted him to feel he was as special to her as the other great grandchildren who knew her-who sat on her lap and rocked with her in her rocking chair by the front window.
My grandmother was always using her hands like instruments to cook-to clean-to hold little ones and tell them she loved them-and to create. Sewing-darning-crocheting-braiding rugs-quilting. It never mattered what she was creating as long as her hands were busy with a task.
My grandmother set out to make my unborn a quilt. She had some of the little squares cut out.
Back then we never knew if we were having a boy or a girl so she chose colors at random. It didn't matter what the colors were to me. What did matter was despite the fact she was tired and weak she kept pushing to finish the quilt before she no longer had the strength.That in itself was a testament to her grit and determination.
My grandmother never did finish the quilt. She ran out of time. But what she left for my child is a masterpiece. With unsewn edges and hand-stitching still intact and little bits of lime green yarn tied amongst the squares, the unfinished work is priceless. Instead of putting it away in a dresser drawer I had it framed. It hangs in my dining room. My grandmother is always near. My son knows the heirloom tied with lime green yarn is his-made just for him by a great-grandmother who loved him.