I remember her holding the ball of yarn so tight even when my mother wouldn’t let her have her knitting needles anymore, fighting back when Mother tries her best to take it from her fingers, holding on to an orange ball of wool that is her place of refuge in a world that confuses her.
I want her back with us again, no matter that she is this spaced out old lady that can’t remember my name, looking at me with vacant eyes and a frown that creases her soft face, the face that I used to touch on nights I fell asleep in her bed afraid of the dark.
Mother folds her linens away in a large trunk with mothballs and paper tissues and I see a small ball of orange fall from one of the striped blankets Mother is folding and I grab it and hold on tight to it even as Mother tries her best to take it from my fingers, I hold on to it for the last memory of my Grandmother will not be taken away from me.
Thank you Sonya for hosting this!
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