warming the heart-mystery-memories
she wove into my soul.
Grandma’s sweater is a sacred vestment.
I kiss it before I put it on.
Grandma’s sweater speaks with a lilting Italian accent,
shape-shifting into haunting melodies of the Old Country,
never to be seen again.
Grandma’s sweater is black, dotted with embroidered daisies
from the International Ladies’ Garment Union.
How could they have known that their beauty
would keep blossoming in my dreams?
Grandma’s sweater is love and prayer,
the reassuring clunking of her sturdy old lady shoes
on the basement steps.
Grandma’s sweater swaddles me with hope
when tentacles of fear threaten to squeeze all joy from my life.
Grandma’s sweater has pockets, as all good sweaters should,
to carry the essentials:
emergency tissues, a spare rosary,
and a little something sweet in case
the kids stop by.
I think the pockets are magic.
Maybe prayer shawls should have magic pockets, too.
In loving memory of our wonderful Nonna Rose. Ti vogliamo bene!
