The Needle Stings But Sews

Grandmother sits in her rocking chair nearly as old as she ragged patches of scrap spread across her lap. She tells stories from her eighty years of senescence, of faces now aged, some no longer bound by this earth as though they were still enjoying the blessings of youth- as fresh in her mind as the daisies and buttercups I picked for her this morning and placed beside her chair; its occasional accompanying squeaks affirming her words from time to time. She did not know then that she was sewing two blankets for me; weaving quilts of words from patterns of memories patching good times to bad making one smooth blanket of emotions. The needle stings-it's true but only so little by comparison to the warmth it provides