Grandmother Miriam taught me how to knit. I learned how to hold a pair of knitting needles before I learned to hold a crayon.
The first thing I ever made was a lace doily. No simple knit and purls for me. I cried in frustration the whole time, but didn’t drop a stitch. Knitting was in my bones. At least that’s what Grandmother told me.
She had beautiful needles. My favorite set was the twenty-three pairs of ivory colored needles she kept in a mahogany box. They had been in our family for generations. I had my own set in a little pink case.
When Grandmother died the funeral was open casket. Draped around her shoulders was a lace shawl that I had made her. Her arms seemed flat and misshapen, boneless, but it was her hands that drew my attention. I had never seen them at rest, let alone so still.
I inherited everything. Her solicitor assured me he had followed her will to the letter, before giving me the house keys and a nervous glance.
I made myself at home in the living room, wrapped in an afghan thrown. The mahogany box sat on the coffee table before me.
I opened it.
Nestled safely within were twenty-four pairs of off white needles. Viewing them that close I noted that they weren’t evenly colored. The last pair was almost pure white. Engraved on each needle was a name, and two dates. I recognized most of them from our genealogy charts but the last pair… I knew that name as well as I knew my own.
Miriam Rose, my Grandmother.
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Credits to: PoisonedSugar
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