A piece of cloth

It was a Saturday evening, and she was surrounded by curiosities in all colors; red, blue, and yellow. And all other lights were out, except for the light coming from the tree, and the moonlight visiting from the window. Arrays of different aromas fluttered in the room, hot cocoa and cinnamon smells intertwined, sweetness that allured her heart, and then abandoned her, leaving behind a tingling lonely after taste.

Despite being wrapped in the warmth of having her family around, an ache in her arose; a groan resonated. She tried to distract her mind, joggling lame jokes and giggles, but she just couldn’t keep up. She flew from her seat, in an attempt to outpace her line of thoughts, what almost seemed like a deadly train that she unknowingly tripped across its railway, and now is fighting to escape the inevitable crash. She tried to rationalize how it was possible for someone to have those negative thoughts in the midst of so much beauty and life, in the day where she was supposed to celebrate the birth of a reason for her to hope in a better future, yet all what she could feel was emptiness. What could possibly be the lesson here, for she was accustomed to meditate amidst those heart wrenching moments, and find an escape to the maze of her own creation, but instead, there again was emptiness and grief.

She was grieving the future loss of family gatherings and this amount of beauty. She grieved her anticipated inadequacy to carry on the traditions, she grieved the possibility that she would not be able to carry the lineage of love and hope that she has experienced to another generation. And even if she could, how can she stich those faces, so that future generations could get to know their names and listen to their stories. She grieved death on earth; the course of time, and her unheard protests against it. She grieved the mortality of it all, her own skin, her humanity. She sensed the heaviness of her responsibility to pass on the same amount of love and acceptance that she has experienced in that room. How can she transform that which is momentary to something eternal, how can she despite her mortality leave an eternal legacy.kniting

”Annie, come honey ” her grandmother’s voice making its way from the kitchen’s window interrupted her thoughts, “Ma-mamita, something smells really good” glad to be interrupted she glided into the kitchen. Her dark eyes twinkling at the sight of her favorite pumpkin pie freshly served out of the oven and escorted to the table. Sitting on the edge of the couch, she stirred her tea unconsciously in recurring rounds, when grandma pressed on her hand, with a fixated gaze and then scooped her chin up “Tell me what’s wrong, child”, “Nothing mamita” anne stuttered forcing a smile. Her grandmother wasn’t fooled, but it was unlike her to winnow the grains, without an invitation, so she resorted back to her knitting. Anne relaxed her back on the couch, as she sipped her tea and ate her pie, watching as her grandmother hands danced from one knot to the other. With eloquent motions, a coordinated harmony, one needle received the yarn only to give it away to the other needle, . two knots… three knots and slowly a piece of cloth made an appearance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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