A delicate, orange thread of yarn magically took me tumbling through the decades to my grandma’s kitchen. That ball of orange yarn, all the way from Sweden, knitted or crocheted into a hat maybe, possibly edging on a scarf was paired with some random cotton for a dishcloth, and I remembered Grandma and her kitchen.
Grandma was from Sweden. She pronounced my name like no one else ever has, her Swedish accent all but vanished, but slipping out when she said my name.
My name felt special. Teaching me
how to say 'thanks a lot' in Swedish ~
‘tack så mycket ~ was fun. I still love
the way it rolls off my tongue.
Sometimes I say it just for the
feel and sound of the past.
African violets on the glass shelves
in the window threw prisms of sunlight
to sparkle the spotless kitchen. Grandpa’s
old rocking chair waited for Mrs. Van
to come for coffee. Always a fresh table
cloth in her neat and tidy kitchen. Her
old linen table cloth with the apples and
vases and a brown singe in the shape of
her iron in one corner is kept ironed and
folded. The thin spots in the fabric are
like these memories, and just as precious.
“No memory is ever alone; it’s at the end of a trail of memories,
a dozen trails that each have their own associations.”
~ Louis L’Amour
