I remember fragile hands leading kissed thread through the eye of a needle. She taught me how to sew. I remember her never eating at the kitchen table, she preferred a plastic plate to eat every single meal on, I remember her shuffling across the carpet apologizing for passing the TV. I want to remember everything she ever meant to me, my grandmother was amazing. She would sit in her chair and just think about her life. And you feared the phone’s ring because it might bring someone for her to talk to for two hours. The person on the other line deserved her time because they had simply called.

I remember fitting into her chair with her and her never understanding a movie for the life of her even if she watched it from the beginning. And I could never get to the ending without a thousand questions. I remember her saying I had a typewriter on my phone. The hours she left me alone with a garden hose, because I simply asked to play with it. She used to let me play with an old box of tools, something my mother found tragic. I remember the day she gave me my great grand-fathers watch. A broken time piece stuck.
I remember the day she no longer spoke sense. How she never left her bed, the thin skin of her hands. I want to say I’m sorry for not wanting to see her anymore.
But you see my Grandmother taught me how to sew. How to stitch, how to make things whole. How to leave the sad, the bad, the ugly and make something beautiful, something amazing. My grandmother stitched our family together, and that is something I will always remember.

2 thoughts on “Sewing

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