My mother liked shopping at the local K-Mart only because they had the best needle point patterns and inexpensive good quality yarns and strings. It was only a 5 minute drive from our house, and would have been walkable if it weren't for the busy roads. She didn't like driving that old Dodge Dart, too big she said, but we managed all right. My brother was already in kindergarten, and for these few precious years, my mom and I were hanging out together on our own.
She's had a box full of yarn all these years. It may be the same one she bought at K-Mart, when she also got the pattern of the flowers and fruits for a kitchen picture. I can remember how she did her needlepoint, sitting in front of the TV, while dinner was simmering in the slow cooker. Her first needlepoint is framed and hangs in the house, in the hallway outside my old bedroom. Along side it, is a needlepoint that I did one hot summer of sailboats and sea. Now, the yarn box sits on the dresser when I come in, so I know she's been working again. She works, even though her hands are thin and pained from repeated needle pricks of the blood glucose monitor.
These sweet memories remind me, although I am not my Mother yet, I may slowly be turning into her. Instead of yarn, I have a box full of my writing books, materials waiting to be made into intriguing and beautiful stories. We both let go our "studied" professions, medicine and engineering, for something else bigger. She -- her children and husband and love of life, me -- my writing, my health (future children??) and also love of life. At 68, she is still a smart savvy doctor. I look forward to the future and working hard to make my yarns into pictures, and staying sharp as a only a doctor of philosophy in engineering can be.
[Short, sweet, needs more details, senses, but a basic start]
