My grandmother Annabelle died over fifteen years ago, but she hugged me last night. Sleep evaded me and I snuggled beneath the covers, pulling the top layer under my chin. The nubby texture flooded my mind with memories stored within the stitches of the afghan my grandmother crocheted for me when I was in my teens.
I don’t know why she picked the colors she did. Well, one color’s yellow and my sister and I shared a yellow bedroom. I think I might have had something to do with that. But brown and orange? I haven’t a clue. Other than that bedroom, it’s never matched any decorating scheme of mine. Yet it’s always found a place on a couch, in a chair, or on my bed.
It’s still going strong. A testament to the durability of sports weight yarn. I’ve washed it hundreds of times in the thirty plus years I’ve carried it around the world. Created on a farm in Arkansas, it’s been to Germany and three states. Six apartments, six houses, and one condo. It’s also been slept on by my four Westies, the most recent named Daisy Belle. Grandmother would have liked that.
What are your favorite memories of your grandmother?