The Sum of All my Parts
I am a tightly wound ball, cold and combustible. A little spark and I will burn. I am waiting.
This tightness, this ache, this burn – I don’t understand it. Eyes closed, I expect the explosion but instead, all it takes is one tug and I lie unspooled, unwound, all the yarn of my life in glorious disarray. I lift each strand in wonder, amazed that there is so much that has escaped my eyes. But no more.
I am glad then, of these busy, nosey and beautiful young women who have come to me, albeit reluctantly. I watch them each day as they wind the yarn, a little lift, a little twist, a crisscross motion of the fingers and there, one more is done.
They chat, they gossip, they laugh and they make me smile. They think I do not understand their little jokes. They think I do not see the sadness behind the eyes, their sense of longing or bafflement. I want to tell them that I know it all but then, when has youth ever listened to old age? I never did.
Youth insulates and isolates them from listening to what their heart says. Or rather what I have been meaning to say to them. I look at each shining face, heads bent together over patterns and sheets, referring to each other, asking their help but no longer coming to me. I want to tell so much to them but not right now, when they think they’re doing me a favour. I glance critically at what they have accomplished and I nod, my face breaking into a smile.
Maybe, tomorrow.
Four different women. One crochet class that changes their lives. At the centre of it is Mariam. She’s old but she has lived her life. This is her story. After all, have you ever wondered at the secrets an old woman can have?
