A friend sent me a photograph of my aunts. Well, some of them. There are a dozen on my mother's side and half as many on my dad's. I speak in the present tense, even though many have moved on. I still love them, and I will be so bold as to say they care for me. 

 

I had the good fortune to be part of the activity, which was absorbing enough to keep our eyes on the project rather than smiling for the camera.  We were assembling a blanket of knitted squares for my grandmother. Each family had their own color yarn, and embroidered individual names on them. Bigger households, like the one with fifteen children, had wider presence than ours. We were the smallest with four. 

 

My first reaction to the window into the past was to notice their hair. It has been a long time since their curly heads were such a rich brunette. My own mother was either not present or I can pretend that she clicked the shot. Since her place in the genealogy was between the two sisters sitting I feel confident that her hair too was a dark chocolate. Not the silver that reigned by the time she lived with us in those final years. 

 

It does seem to be a universal transition, this graying. I wonder if it is a manifestation of something more internal, like the softening of absolutes. I can recall some of the sharp divisions I clung to in my youth.

 

 

 

I remember going to visit one of these women when I was worried about my own child. I asked her what I should do.

 

"Love her."

 

One of the endearing qualities of quilts is how they soften over time. The agitation of washing, and the abrasion of being wrapped around chilly legs seems to wear the fibers in a way that actually makes them more comfortable. It turns out that being alive, for I am one of those who attributes life to a quilt, involves the suppleness that comes from having color and losing it, loving someone and saying goodbye.