She still talks to me. I still don't listen.
"Watch out for the needles."
The voice was Mom's. I was pawing through her yarn when I heard it.
"I already took out all the needles, Mom."
After Mom died last May, my sisters packed up all her yarn and accessories and insisted I take them. Included were some crafting items and needlepoint things. I carefully sorted through everything, donated the craft items that I wouldn't use, saved the needlepoint threads and needles in the family sewing kit, and kept the yarn in bags in the back of my closet, separate from all my other yarns. Saving it for special family projects, I guess.
But lately, I've been hearing Mom tell me to use her stuff.
"You're making hats for the homeless shelter? I bet there's some nice yarn in that bag. You have so much. What are you saving it for?"
So, I've been diving into those bags in the back of the closet once in a while.
This time, I was looking for various scraps of browns.
"Watch out for the needles."
"I already took out all the needles, Mom."
"Okay." And then she was quiet.
Grab. Grab.
Paw. Paw.
After choosing half a dozen items, I packed up Mom's yarn and pushed it back into the closet.
Then, I wrapped my hands around the balls on the floor. One of them was a little stiff. Like the yarn had been wrapped around a bit of cardboard or something. I picked that ball out and gave it a squeeze.
Odd; instead of feeling a square or rectangle of cardboard, there was only one corner sticking out.
Upon closer inspection, I found it was not a piece of cardboard at all.
It was a needle.
Of course.
She still talks to me.
I still don't listen.
The voice was Mom's. I was pawing through her yarn when I heard it.
"I already took out all the needles, Mom."
After Mom died last May, my sisters packed up all her yarn and accessories and insisted I take them. Included were some crafting items and needlepoint things. I carefully sorted through everything, donated the craft items that I wouldn't use, saved the needlepoint threads and needles in the family sewing kit, and kept the yarn in bags in the back of my closet, separate from all my other yarns. Saving it for special family projects, I guess.
But lately, I've been hearing Mom tell me to use her stuff.
"You're making hats for the homeless shelter? I bet there's some nice yarn in that bag. You have so much. What are you saving it for?"
So, I've been diving into those bags in the back of the closet once in a while.
This time, I was looking for various scraps of browns.
"Watch out for the needles."
"I already took out all the needles, Mom."
"Okay." And then she was quiet.
Grab. Grab.
Paw. Paw.
After choosing half a dozen items, I packed up Mom's yarn and pushed it back into the closet.
Then, I wrapped my hands around the balls on the floor. One of them was a little stiff. Like the yarn had been wrapped around a bit of cardboard or something. I picked that ball out and gave it a squeeze.
Odd; instead of feeling a square or rectangle of cardboard, there was only one corner sticking out.
Upon closer inspection, I found it was not a piece of cardboard at all.
It was a needle.
Of course.
She still talks to me.
I still don't listen.
6 comments:
Daughters never do.
True, Dani.
But, keep in mind, she made me dig through nine boxes of clothes to find her blue hooded jacket. ;-)
That's cool, Roses. My grandpa still talks to me every day after almost 30 years. Sometimes I even talk back, too.
I'm still saving some of my mother's yarn and needlepoint, too. She moved to Heaven in 1977 when I was all of 23. Someday I'll start listening to her.
Always listen to Mom.
She may have made you look through nine bags, but she knew there was a needle in there somewhere!
It was a test... ;)
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