Hey everyone, it’s Sonia here. I never thought I’d be using social media for something like this, but here we go. I need to share something that has unraveled a part of my life I didn’t even know needed unraveling. I hope you’ll bear with me.
For years, I’ve had this shoebox tucked away at the back of my closet. It’s been moved from apartment to apartment, a relic of my teenage years, and like most boxes with old stuff, it just gathered dust. I’d always assumed it was full of old diaries or friendship bracelets, maybe a few Polaroids from high school. I never really thought about it until today.
It was raining hard this morning; I think the sound of raindrops always gets me in a reflective mood. So, I decided to tackle a bit of cleaning. When I pulled out the box, planning to consolidate it with some other keepsakes, something caught my attention. Right on top was a knitted brown scarf. It was odd because, though I recognized it instantly, I hadn’t thought of it in years.
My grandmother knitted that scarf. She was a quiet woman, her hands always busy with yarn. We weren’t close; she was more a presence than a participant in my life. But she always knitted us things — mittens, sweaters, socks. This scarf, though, was different.
I remember the first time she gave it to me, I must have been about ten. I didn’t think much of it at the time; it was just another item to add to the pile of things she’d made. But seeing it today, its texture under my fingers, something emotional unspooled in my mind.
I sat there on the floor and held the scarf close, breathing in its slightly musty scent. And that’s when it happened. The memory surfaced, so quietly and powerfully it was almost like a whisper — a day I had entirely forgotten.
It was a summer evening, warm and golden. I was at my grandparents’ house for the weekend. My parents had some event and had dropped me off. My grandfather was out in the shed tinkering away, and my grandmother was in her usual chair, knitting. I was bored out of my mind and had wandered into the living room.
I remember flopping down on the carpet, lamenting how dull everything was. My grandmother looked at me over her glasses with a gentle smile, “Boredom is a sign you’re not looking closely enough, Sonia,” she said. I groaned in response, but she continued, “Let me show you something.”
She led me upstairs to a room I’d never paid much attention to. It was her crafting room. Scraps of yarn everywhere, half-finished projects strewn about. In the corner was a small loom, which piqued my curiosity. I didn’t even know she had one.
She sat me down and started showing me how to weave a simple pattern. Her hands moved like they had their own language, a quiet ballet of creating something beautiful from mere strands. I was clumsy and slow, but she encouraged me, showing infinite patience.
We spent hours there that weekend. Just the two of us, me learning her craft, and her passing on whispers of her world to me. The scarf wasn’t just a gift; it was a testament to those moments, the bond we’d formed without my ever realizing it.
I had never thought about those days, not until this morning. I had tucked those memories away, much like the scarf, letting them collect dust.
Something shifted inside me today. I realized how much I missed her, how much her quiet presence had meant to me. Maybe it was because she wasn’t the kind of grandmother who’d fuss over you, but she had given me a part of herself in that room, through that scarf.
I’ve cried today more than I have in a long time. Not out of sadness, but out of gratitude. Gratitude for having had her in my life, even in the background.
This scarf, once just a forgotten thing, is now a cherished memory. It’s a reminder to pay attention, to look closely, and to find the beauty in the quiet moments. I’m holding it now as I write this, and it feels like a warm embrace.
Thank you for reading this far. I hope you hold those quiet moments close, too. They’re more precious than we often realize.
