A Family Tradition

She was such a tiny thing. Frail, wailing among a waddle of pale blue blankets and strong, calloused hands. Her face was a bright pink, and her hair was thin threads of pale brown, drifting in the air of the hospital room. And she was precious. When she finally passed inspection and was cautiously handed to her teary-eyed, struggling-to-breathe-through-the-joy mother, she opened her eyes to study her new environment. Her eyes were a dark blue, stunningly deep in their clarity and intelligence.

When the girl was brought home, her grandmother was overwrought with excitement and unconditional love. She constantly joined the infant’s mother to fret and murmur over her curious noises and grasping hands. Before long, a trickle of sewing supplies entered the house. A couple needles found their way onto the kitchen counter, then various threads. Every time the grandmother wasn’t huddled over the beautiful baby, she was searching for materials, for substance of creativity and long lasting love. Eventually, there were cloths, threads, needles, down, and all manner of tiny insubstantial materials piled on the counters, the dressers, the couches, wherever it would fit.

The girl started to grow and learn, her curiosity festering as she impatiently explored every inch of her new home, bravely traversing the floor and recklessly getting into absolutely everything. As her noises were louder, more expressive, and as her legs grew stronger and she started to walk, her grandmother busied herself with a project that was altogether small but impossibly large. She flew through those materials she had gathered and exterminated them, one by one, until she found the perfect cloths and threads to use.

Then she started to sew. Soft, luscious purple crossed with gently curving vanilla stripes were sewn together with deft motions and concise, tight stitches. Over time the unassuming materials became a pillow, fluffed and soft beyond words. It was a tradition for the grandmother, and every pillow she made was more special than she could ever admit. Each pillow was a manifest of her pride, her love, her wisdom. It was a testimony to her motherhood. The pillow was for the beautiful little girl, who didn’t care much for the pillow at the time. But her grandmother didn’t moan, or complain. Her tears weren’t of sadness. She knew that in time her lovely grandchild would come to appreciate it, and even if she didn’t, her grandmother would always appreciate her.

Years and years later, there were still many nights where that infant, now a woman, could be found tracing the words stitched into the pillow, remembering her grandmother.

When you are tired or when you are weak

Lay your head down and let it kiss your cheek

No matter how cold the night may be

I will always be your loving family