The Valenciennes lace on grandmother’s coffee table was a
meditation mat to rest my eyes on as I listened to her home spun
stories–that both related–because she was my grandma–and didn’t
relate–because it was hard to imagine her a neotonous young girl.
Her narrative’s cadence a candle of beautiful hands guiding me back
in time, bobbined memories of our ancestors’ escapes, exodus
spooling out the underground railroad. I remember her folding the
lace, a whole drawer of it in the credenza. Here, feel. They appear
delicate, but they’re sturdy.
~ Lady
very nice…