Yesterday, while I repaired your crocheting, I found myself looking down to feel the tieing together of the old and new, of ourselves with ourselves with each other. It was as if you were there, Grandmother, guiding my hands, retracing the pattern to see the design. Grandmother, you tried to teach me how to crochet, how to knit thread to thread with my own hands; and it seems as if I am still trying to learn how to weave together with words what I could not weave with thread, words out of silence for which I must wait. Tonight, the house wraps me as if it were your shawl; it feels like an old woman, sitting on a rock, learning, as I must, how to listen. And I hear the healing that silence brings and I hear the repair that only waiting allows, while I retrace the pattern to see the design.
spring dusk somewhere in the distance a robin's last song