Knitting Granny

[written_leaves]

This is for Thelma, a tiny lady I all too briefly knew in the autumn of her days.

Knitting Granny

My old knitting granny was a cheerful soul
Always at the church bazaar,
All comfortable midst her piles of knitted booties,
Scarves, hats, pot-holders, towels and cloths.
Every year I would pick out one or two,
As she knitted in the sunshine that came through the window.

Her voice reminded me of birds in the springtime,
When they twitter on from amid the leaves,
Cheerfully telling everyone
In her little monologue,
(Whether they inquired or not -)
About how she used up the scraps, waste not want not,
That's why that one there is many colors -
Those are for the children, you know,
You can put candy in them at Christmastime.
I don't know what size those hats are -
I just kind of guess, you'll have to try them on.
Some kids have big heads, you'd be surprised.
Aren't those towels the prettiest colors?
Sometimes I can't choose which edging for them.

She chuckles to herself at some inner joke or memory,
Knits a little more as I slowly choose.
Her hand-lettered paper tags are pinned to the towels;
Silver straight pins, the ones with plastic colored knobs.
She likes to carefully take them off when you buy one,
And saves them to be used again.
Small squares of plain paper with shaky numbered prices,
Neatly tucked into a tattered envelope.

She sets aside her knitting to hand me my change,
And settles back into her nest with a little tug on her sweater.

I looked for her this Autumn, but she was no longer there.
Where was she? They weren't sure, hadn't heard from her at all.
The late year's sun shone weakly on her corner;
A plump stranger sat there, stared mutely from behind
A display of beaded ornaments, stiff doily sachets ,
Cross-stitched bookmarks dangling from a plastic tree.
The scent of cider, and cheerful music is in the air,
But my heart feels a twinge, empty and cold.
I do not stay long.

The holes are growing,
Autumn's edges are frayed.
I need to find a new knitting granny

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