Lilac Noktoa
Her hands may tremble as she puts her knitting needles to work but they never drop a stitch. Rather than throw rugs or chair covers, she decorates her tiny apartment with blankets she has knit by hand, and every blanket tells a story.
The little lilac one was the first blanket she'd ever knit. The stitches are clumsy and uneven, the work of small hands prone to distraction. She'd fidgeted through her mother's lessons, wanting to go outside and play with the farm children whose parents didn't bother to distinguish boys from girls.
Her father threatened to return her new shoes to the store. They were shaped from purple plastic, the only pair of their kind in her neighborhood and she loved them dearly. Most children's shoes in those days were hideous black or brown blocks. She'd been so proud to walk into church, holding Daddy's hand and showing off shoes in the world's best color. She'd even had a dress to match, a frilly thing with lace at cuffs and collar. Mama had to smack her hand a few times to get her to stop fidgeting through the preacher's never-ending homily. She'd grinned and made faces at the girl across the aisle in ugly brown loafers. She was too young at that age to distinguish the rich from the poor.
The white blanket boasts a wild assortment of red, yellow, and green apples. It had been her graduation gift to Norma, a girl who was the closest she ever had to a sister. It has a few spots from the many uses Norma's trio of children put it through but there is not one thread frayed despite the years.
Thea only ever had one photograph of Norma, taken on the day they completed high school. The years of passing notes behind Teacher's back and meeting up at the ice cream parlor to greet the football players getting out of practice were behind them. They both fell hard for the same man, their friendship salvaged only by his betrayal when he ran after a more shapely figure. They wrote each other from time to time until Norma's letters ceased to come. One day a box was waiting for Thea, one that contained the old blanket and a letter from Betty, Norma's oldest daughter. She'd read about Norma's death in the paper and sent flowers to the family. The name on the card had reminded Betty of her mother's peculiar wish. How such a ratty old rag could hold any value was beyond the fashionable Betty, but Thea had been happy to let the cheerful blanket absorb her tears of grief.
The blanket with purple and red stripes is not the most beautiful design though no one can argue the craftsmanship is exquisite. She started to knit it the day her husband proposed and had it completed for them to share on their wedding night.
She never removed her wedding ring during fifty-two wonderful years of marriage. Jim feared to wear his, working every day in the filth of constructions sites. She'd never cared that her husband didn't hold a glamorous job. He loved being out in the sun, pouring the foundations to buildings where laws would be made and cures would be discovered for terrible diseases. He was doing his little part to make a difference in the world, just as she shaped the minds of youngsters who would go on to be physicians and politicians. She'd brought his favorite blanket to the hospital where they spent their last few days together. It had touched her heart, seeing the way he rubbed the familiar fabric against his cheek and smiled. He could not remember his own first name by the end, but he never forgot his love. She still keeps their pair of wedding bands together in a little box he gave her on their first anniversary.
There are a total of twenty-seven baby blankets in all, eight for the children she brought into the world and one for each of the grandchildren. The original eight are pink and blue with the initial of the child's first name knitted in a block letter on the front. The younger generation have blankets in the color of their birthstones.
The baby she lost never felt the warm caress of the fabric she formed for him but he was no less loved than the seven beautiful children who went on to make her proud. Her children made it a tradition to return their baby blankets in exchange for full-sized ones presented on their eighteenth birthday. Each was unique to the grown-up child, from a dusty brown field with stallions running wild for Tom the rancher to a field scattered with purple hearts for Jane the heart surgeon. Each of the grandchildren signed their name to an enormous banner that reads "Happy 100th Birthday Grandma! We love you!"
She knows that twilight approaches, but age has not dulled the terrific and tragic memories of the long years. It is there that the best part of herself resides, patiently waiting for the hour when she will hold Jim's hand once again.
Credits:
Profile by 
Ziva
Story by 
Pureflower
