Memories of my Grandmother

In a drawer,

paper lined,

I saw the lace

that time

had gentled to

pale cream.

It reminds me

of you.

Powdered skin,

thinned with age,

a tracery

of lines,

the pattern

of joys, woes

and final

stasis.

Your fingers,

nimble almost

to the end,

that flew

over fine threads

creating webs

of patterns

that fashioned

your home,

and clothes.

Even then

you were a relic

of a bygone age.

Your heritage

preserved

despite nomadic

wanderings.

How strange

to find you

lingering still,

woven into

the fabric

of my

existence.