I just finished reading the Friday Night Knitting Club and found myself in tears for the second time today. [The first was a church when the choir sang amazing grace.] It’s a beautifully poetic story, with great bits that any knitter can identify with, while telling the humanizing tale of Georgia Walker, single-mother and business woman.
What got me started crying wasn’t the content of the story, although it did provoke it. It was thinking about the joy in reading and crafting that my Grandmother instilled in me from such a young age.
So many late nights I remember staying up with her, kitty-corner on the old brown couch reading and eating Oreo’s. I’m certain I was up much later than an 8 year-old should have been but it didn’t matter. I’d have whatever book she’d found for me at the library and she was usually reading a thick mass market paperback, although for the life of me I can’t seem to remember what genre she favored. Often when I put a book down late at night I think about how much I miss her.
It’s like fresh salt in a wound.
I always thought it’d get easier, as time passes but it hasn’t. It’s been over ten years and sometimes something will hit a cord that brings it all open again.
I know she loves me and is proud of me. I just wish I could close my book and see her smiling back at me, reminding me gently, that maybe, it’s time for bed.
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