Sunday, March 24, 2013
The morning drive, uneventful outwardly. Yet internally thriving. Thoughts bounce one to another, nothing specific, nothing of utmost importance.
Just the drive.
People rushing to go absolutely nowhere and doing so a mach 7. School buses flood the major roads, repetetive mutterings, "Shouldv'e gone the other way"...Red lights, green.
No fasincating attention to detail, only to know when to stop, when to go.
Routine down solid.
As she opened the door, and waiting on the counter for her, a pair of Red Mittens.
Life went on. Swirled and whirled.
She landed back in 1974.
Mittens from a lady she knew and did not know. A woman known as Bina.
A woman some called, "Ma", others referred to as "Grammy".
A connection lost somewhere along the dusty road. Lives cross, then move apart, then cross, a continuous flux.
Strawberry, blueberry and rasberry picking, in the most Northern woods of Maine. Summers spent, eating, cleaning, eating, visiting, making homemade jam, endless attempts at teaching the girl to knit, to crochet, settling on cross stitch.
Bingo the highlight of time spent with the lady. The one known, as "Gram".
Miles and miles seperate throughout the year.
A love for a woman, she so briefly knew.
Every year, homemade presents, of knitted booties and mittens. Throws too.
Taken for granted, forgotten amongst the baubles under her tree.
Sent back to a time when life was there. Life was fun. Life was carefree.
And still remained the separation, the detachment, of Bina.
Seeking, at moments, for that connection. Where the pain of loss could make sense. To make it all real.
The last moments remembered of her, were the nights she spent in Bina's empty apartment. With Bina's son.
The last moments anyone of us ever had together. Physically and in spirit.
It was the last time she ever spent a length of time, being real. Being honest. Being true.
Long hours of talk. Flooded from the heart.
Little did we know. Did we ever expect.
Life meandered on. She wilted. She grew. She learned of wisdom. All from the last trip.
Bina. Life without Bina.
Finding the connection. Putting aside the blood. The biological genes.
That connection of the heart.
The understanding this woman had, for this girl. Was more than the girl would ever come to know.
With a look, with a word, she could read her soul.
Sharing coincidences of choices.
A dusty path.
Bina knew the girl. Never letting on. The connection would be found, years on the bye and bye.
The girl grew in to her own.
Bina stood by.
Never a sad word.
Never a bad word.
Just an understood word.
Bina as a girl, a curious, freespirit, lived outside of the societal norm. Her motherhood began at a time when a child with only a mother was shunned.
At a time when guilt of religion reigned supreme.
A connection to the girl.
Now today,2006, years past.
Memories tucked away.
A lifetime ago.
A life ago.
Now.... Red Mittens.
A christmas gift. A gift from the past.
Put aside, forgotten.
Knitted with love.
The scent of a woman, still lingers, after all this time.
The connection of two women, woven within.
The Red mittens.