Small town curiosity shops hide grandmothers in pieces of felt, hat pins, antique jewelery made from woven hair, hand sewn lace, lilac sachets.
Grandmothers with tangled hands and kaleidoscope eyes the size of herons peak through empty glass pop bottles with heavy, heavy bottoms. They are the shape of women, the shape of child grandmothers, the shape of before.
My grandmother is a plate of African violets, the tchotchke red cardinal I chose from a rack, the thick green stem of a prickly pear.
Flea market grandmothers wear high laced boots in need of button hooks. They are marmalade and lemonade and Band-Aids in a box.
Roadside attractions, they. Pit stops. Bubble gum and exit signs.
My grandmother is an afghan blanket frayed and unknotting, an image done in double exposure, a looking glass in need of rebacking.
Dani Smith (Something Knitty) said, ” Coming apart at the seams” and offered the lovely photo at the top of the page. If you care to follow writers on Twitter, I do hope you follow Dani, she’s a very generous, kind and thought-provoking lady with a hell of a “has read” book list.