Woven Memories

A dusty gloom blankets the abandoned ghost town. Shards of crumbled wood and dried leaves crunch under my steps as I walk towards an old mirror before leaving for my morning walk in the neighborhood. I trace my fingers across my reflection, smeared and hacked off with granular blotches on the glass and its jagged ends. The folds and crevices in my face have deepened today.

I step out in the sunshine. The deserted streets stretch endlessly. They are unrecognizable from what they used to be in a hive of colorful memories of my happy married life here. The breeze tugs naggingly at newly sprouted tulips on the ground, and dull, lifeless branches sway along with it exhaustedly. A stray cat stops in its tracks, gazing at me intently, its green eyes flashing in the sunlight. I have a slight sprint in my step today from my usually ungainly and strained gait, as I think about preparing a feast of sticky rice dumplings for my grandchildren today.

I push open the gate to our house. It gives way with the slightest touch, its creaks resembling the defeated groans of a man long in the tooth. I can hear my husband clacking away on his keyboard. Perhaps he is writing a letter to his friend, expressing his excitement to burst crackers for Chinese New Year today. I thank God for going another day without forgetting his name.

I collapse in a rocking chair older than I am. My fingers move steadily in a routine I have mastered over the years. I weave a woolen orange sweater, my darning needles adorning the fabric with tufts of stitches. There is a mellow clattering among the needles, as if they are having their own chat with the wool.

I toss aside the half-done on a pile of other vibrant sweaters. When I die, my daughter will have enough clothes to last her a lifetime. I hope the love with which I have stitched them wrap her warmer than the wool.