Every now and then when I’m dressing the boys, a silver thread catches my eye. Woven amongst the threads which knitted make up their jumpers, knotted incognito around the button shaped like a duck or loosely folded into the cuff, each thread that I find makes me smile and give thanks for the person who gave it, because they’re not really threads these at all, they’re my Grandmas’ strand hairs, loving knitted into the threads which make their jumpers and a part of our days.
Somewhere in an attic of a home no longer belonging to me, is a box full of half written diaries. The saddest part about that box of whole words is the half words not treasured in their present to be there today. On those pages, and these also, I find myself adding a ‘but’ that I didn’t even feel ’til I sat there to write; for better or for worse it seems an inescapable part of my being feels life more complex and unbalanced when evaluated with the tip of a pen. As I composed last nights post for once there wasn’t a but I could feel. Yesterday, even the ‘bad’ stuff, which everybody’s everyday has, felt in balance to the light on our porch. For once I recognise in the present the importance of what will be in the past. I’m so grateful for this free lease on thought.
Everyday when my boys wear their cardies, I photograph their memory in mind and then I come here, most evenings, and try, somehow, to transpose that picture into words, in a book that will never be finished, but will always be left in a box. I don’t knit clothes for my children but maybe someday, as they step in pre-trodden places, they’ll find the strand that I left them (Google Glasses permitting) and it will make them smile and make memory of the memory I gave to them, too.