by Karen Taylor
She couldn’t read a pattern;
Told me that, herself.
She could crochet just about anything,
But couldn’t read the pattern.
Afghans, hats, pocket-books
Doilies, scarves and pillows.
Made up her own. I guess.
Once, my Dad asked her for a toboggan cap.
One that covered the face;
For fishing and hunting.
She made him one, but not from a pattern.
She read Grace Livingston Hill books,
and the Good Book, several times.
Long after she was gone,
My aunt said that I was her favorite.
I don’t know about that.
I just worshiped the ground she walked on,
And all the hats and pocket-books she made me.
Because she couldn’t read a pattern.
Bio: Karen Taylor was born in Rutherfordton, N.C., lived in Spartanburg, S.C., for forty three years, and moved back to Rutherfordton after the loss of her husband. She is pursuing a Bachelor’s Degree in English.
Author’s Comment: After attending a writer’s workshop where both Julia Nunnally Duncan and Scott Owens advised us to use familial memories to inspire our writing, this poem just happened in my mind, so I wrote it down. Mah Mah was my maternal grandmother, and she and I had a very close relationship. Being overweight, wearing braces and glasses, caused me to gravitate to someone who really accepted me, in spite of my appearance