I remember sitting on the floor of my grandmother’s home, her plush carpet tickled between my toes and her sweet rosy perfume in thickened the air. I can remember watching her in her chair as she rocked back and forth with a ball of yarn in her lap.
Click, click, click, click.
I could hear her worn wooden knitting needles clacking together as she mumbled to herself…
“Knit one, purl two. Knit one, purl two.”
The sound continued with the occasional squeek of her chair chiming in as her mumbles faded away to humming.
Sometimes I’d ask her what she was humming; all she would say was, a song.
Sometimes I’d ask her if she knew the words; she’d simply say no and go back to her knitting.
Her humming would stand out over the clicking of her needles and the squeaking chair. I still wonder of her song. It flowed from her like the sweater from her knitting. A melody of low and high notes meshing together like the strand of yarn to make something truly memorable.
I wish I remembered my grandmother’s song…