My grandma was a frail older woman, in her late 80s, and of small stature. Her skin was of a light brown complexion, wrinkled and ashy. She always greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a warm hug as her brittle hands would gently wrap around my waist. She wore the same ten outfits that must have been at least twenty years old; she was too frugal to ever go out and buy a new one. Why fix something that isn’t broken, right? Every time I think of her, I can almost hear the subtle creaks that emerged from her chair as she rocked back and forth. The rickety caramel legs help up the blue, woven seat that was in desperate need of reupholstery. It faded into a lighter shade along the perimeter of where her bony legs would lay, and had small holes where she would sometimes stick her knitting needles.
Her pandemic sways of the chair guided her careful knit work. One by one, she carefully crafted baby hats and booties. But don’t get me wrong, although the work was precise, it did not stop her from creating hundreds a day. And no, she did not have that many grandchildren. Although, I know it would have filled her with joy to have even more rugrats running at her feet and calling her ‘Grandma’. Nonetheless, these weren’t for her family; they were for others.
Giving up her hours, she lovingly constructed minuscule clothing that she could ship off to the nearest hospitals. Because of her, hundreds of babies would be able to have their head warmed by her soft yarn, just moments into their new life.