Anthology

I remember the feel of my grandmother’s lace. Old, brittle, and soft
Its once pure white a now faint splash of yellow.

I remember watching my grandmother’s hands move to-and-fro with the needle
like a constant flowing stream—her hands moved. Creating wonderfully beautiful

delicate pieces of art.

One day I asked my grandmother to teach me her skill. Hour after hour I tried to mimic grandmother’s hands their fluidity and grace.
But no matter how I practiced and attempted her craft the grace in my hands did not create the same beauty.

Frustration clouded my eyes as I was thinking of giving up my task. Face in hands I let my frustration flow onto the delicate lace pattern Grandmother entered the room—looking herself delicate and soft Her eyes set on me, her hand rested on my head.

She asked me “Why do you cry child?”
I just looked up and replied “My lace is not as beautiful as your

many patterns.”

Grandmother raised my chin and kissed me on the forehead. “Dear child, don’t you know . . . ”
She ran her fingers over my design.
“What makes this beautiful are its imperfections.”

And then she patted my hand and left the room.

I looked at my lace holding it gently in my hands. Letting my eyes wander down the neatly looped lace. Its imperfections make it beautiful.