I sit at my great-grandmother’s knee on the porch of her old farmhouse. A tangle of wool sheared from her Cheviots sheep, dyed a bright yellow from sedge grass I gathered last fall, is wound loosely around my hands.
She lifts the wool from my outstretched arms, twisting the yarn into a small ball of itchy sunshine. As she works, she tells me stories, words slipping through her lips as the thread slips through her fingers.
I listen spellbound as she spins yarns and weaves tales, our lives forever interwoven, an intricate tapestry of wool and words, youth and years.