Heirlooms

"I have something for you," she told me. "Right there on the table."

I unwrapped the box carefully, peeling strips of tape from the bright wrappings, setting aside the purple bow, and--

"Oh! Oh, Grammy. It's beautiful. Beautiful." I knotted my fingers through the thick wool; I gathered the heavy afghan into my arms.

"Remember what I said about last winter? I started knitting again after a while. I had to, to keep my mind busy while I was sick - that there's the washing instructions - and all the while I knitted this, I thought of you."

"The pattern! - "

"Isn't it purty? Kind of old-fashioned, I thought. And I just - well, I was gonna mail it. And then you called and said you were comin' up this week-end, so I thought I'd wrap up an' give it to you now."

"Oh, Grammy, it's beautiful. Oh, thank you. Thank you."

An hour later, and we were driving home, back through the mountains to our rental home and our own familiar streets and the little neighbor boy who leaned out his bedroom window to give us "goodnight" when we pulled into the driveway.

Inside, I spread the afghan over my bed, running my fingers down the raised, pearled chevrons, toying with the eyelet arches that lace through the fabric.

"Oh, Grammy."

("Isn't it purty?")

"Thank you."

("I was gonna mail it. And then you called.")

"I shall keep it . . . for always."

("And all the while I knitted it, I thought of you.")