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.
Thin spiral notebook 
Oh this is so full of imagery and the magic of a beautifully flowing stream. I absolutely love this, because I am hooked from the start and sad that it was not longer. Although, the length is great. It is just that you quickly spoiled me with the tale, so I wanted more. This is so rich with warmth. Thank you so much!
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Thank you, Sue.
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You are most certainly welcome!
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Lovely. I too remember my grandmother knitting or sewing or cooking with great fondness. A beautiful depiction.
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Some of my fondest memories of my grandmother are helping her cook, and can vegetables from my grandfather’s garden.
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