I have been writing very little so far this year, but really, I can’t seem to find the time with everything right now. In a month I will be moving across the country, and my hands have literally been full with the subject of this poem. (I am determined to give my grandmother a finished afghan back, and I am half done as you can see above. I should’ve planned the colors and patterns better, honestly.)
The family afghans and quilts are made
By hand for married grandchildren.
Our grandmother, when aged well, but not
Quite well aged, use to spend months
With the monks cloth braced between
Her piercing fingers, tracing the patterns
Weeks before the needle ever dared to dart
And plant the yarn between its timid floats.
We were all suppose to get one.
In determination she bought the cloth,
And cut it before we even knew our own names.
The colors were selected with some divine
Understanding of each one of us, knowing
What we’d grow to prefer in adulthood.
At each marriage announcement she began
Weaving with pride and fearlessness.
Everyone has had one gifted to them, but me-
My family is quickly growing tired of me
Not telling them all the important things
They think they want and are willing to know.
Finally, last month my grandmother handed me
Three yards of indigo monks cloth and two needles,
She told me that once I buy my yarn to start
With a diamond pattern – the best for beginners.
If you like my writing please check out my book Moth-Like. It can be bought on Amazon here.