Remembering Nanny Knitting

by Krista Jane Luttrell

Nanny’s knitting,
I’m remembering.
I’m remembering she’s knitting
leftover balls of yarn,
in a kaleidoscope of hues
and blends
in her well-worn leather-faux,
reclining chair,
reclining.
I’m watching her,
watching the magic
her dainty hands perform
from the cloth-scraps braided
for a rug, hand-made,
lying ‘round
the dining room floor
in that old house
on Back Cove.
Her hands make
pastel metal sticks dance,
in a lightly rhythmic dance:
clickity-clack,
clickity-clack,
clickity-clack,
clack, clack, clack.
A zig-zag-pattern emerged,
its grown long,

and longer still,
until it falls,
falling,
it fell
into a pool of color
on the dull floor beside her.
I’m watching her
fill the soft little loops
with strength of hearty hope
of making another,
and another,
those twisted fiber threads
bound together
in the warmth of red.
blue’s cool, and
green’s divine serenity.
Nanny’s knitting,
Nanny’s knitting.
Today I’m feeling so joyful
in remembering
Nanny knitting.

(in memory of my grandmother, Helen)