I sat in front of her, with my feet safely tucked under me, and watched her for the longest time without saying a word.
Her hands moved rhythmically and meticulously over the pattern on a white pillowcase, threading the needle tightly into an intricate pattern I could only hope to mimic one day. Some day, on a Sunday, when I were old and tired, I would also sit on my second story balcony in the afternoon sun and let the warm island breeze run through my hair as I embroidered my day away. I would let my glasses rest on the tip of my nose, and every now and then hum a song from years ago, sighing exasperated whenever I cross stitched the wrong line. I would rest my eyes by staring quietly at the houses in the small valley below me...the same one where generations before me worked the land and built their homes and where the new generation, my grandchildren, are now running through the tall grass chasing fireflies. And some day, a long long time from now, a tiny squeaky voice would break my inner thoughts...
"Nana?", I asked.
"Hmmm?", she'd mumble back, as her hands went back to work on her embroidery, not even bothering to look up at me.
"Why do you have so many colors of thread, but always do your flowers in red and pink?"
"Because I like red and pink flowers", she whispered lazily.
"I like orange flowers, Nana. Do you have orange?", I asked as I tipped my chair back and leaned it against the wall, grazing my toes on the balcony beams.
"Yes. But you can make your flowers orange when you learn to do this. I like mine like this", she bit at the remaining piece of string after she had secured the knot. Tucking her hair behind her ear, and gnawing her lip a bit, she looked inside her fabric and string box for something.
"Nana, what were you humming?", I leaned my chair further back, balancing on it's hind legs.
"Just a song. Stop leaning on the chair, you're going to fall", she said finally looking over at me, but not really seeing me.
"What's the song about? The sun?", I said - ignoring her request and now rocking the chair back and forth, hitting the back of it softly against the wall and staring at the sun beginning to make it's way down the sky.
"No. About a boy who used to sing to a girl he was in love with. Stop rocking the chair, you're going to fall", she said a bit more sternly and started to embroider the leaves for her flowers in a bright green.
"Why did he stop singing, Nana? No I'm not." I swayed my legs wildly as I felt the chair wobble, giggling.
"Because her dad didn't want them to be in love, so he lied to his daughter and told her the boy didn't love her anymore. She drank poison and died. The boy didn't sing again. Stop it with the chair, Prieta. You're gonna fall and hurt yourself!", she snapped slightly at me.
"Nana, why do you sing sad songs? Sing happy songs. About the sun and kissing!", I said loudly as I pushed my chair back strongly, with both feet planted on the balcony beam. Immediately I felt a snap in the plastic material and the chair give way under me, making me fall backwards and bumping my head on the floor.
She looked over at me as I started to tear up and was rubbing the back of my head. It burned and the wait for her to scream out her long stream of curse words and 'I told you so' was grueling. But, after a few seconds she pushed her glasses back down to the tip of her nose and said "Because I like sad songs and when you grow up, you will too...go get another chair".
I quickly went to the opposite end of the balcony and dragged a metal chair this time, and started leaning back on it as she resumed her humming.
"Nana..." I started.
"You're going to fall again", she said as she stared at the cars making their way up and down our corner of the mountains.
I let my chair fall forward and sat up straight. I stared a the cars for a few minutes with her in silence before I resumed, "...can we do orange flowers now?"
She looked over and pulled me on her lap, kissing the bump on the back of my head before combing my hair with her fingertips and pulling it back up in a tidier pony tail again.
She put the new pillowcase on my lap and spread it neatly, before handing me a needle with bright orange thread.
"Yes, you can do it. I only like pink and red."
Her hands moved rhythmically and meticulously over the pattern on a white pillowcase, threading the needle tightly into an intricate pattern I could only hope to mimic one day. Some day, on a Sunday, when I were old and tired, I would also sit on my second story balcony in the afternoon sun and let the warm island breeze run through my hair as I embroidered my day away. I would let my glasses rest on the tip of my nose, and every now and then hum a song from years ago, sighing exasperated whenever I cross stitched the wrong line. I would rest my eyes by staring quietly at the houses in the small valley below me...the same one where generations before me worked the land and built their homes and where the new generation, my grandchildren, are now running through the tall grass chasing fireflies. And some day, a long long time from now, a tiny squeaky voice would break my inner thoughts...
"Nana?", I asked.
"Hmmm?", she'd mumble back, as her hands went back to work on her embroidery, not even bothering to look up at me.
"Why do you have so many colors of thread, but always do your flowers in red and pink?"
"Because I like red and pink flowers", she whispered lazily.
"I like orange flowers, Nana. Do you have orange?", I asked as I tipped my chair back and leaned it against the wall, grazing my toes on the balcony beams.
"Yes. But you can make your flowers orange when you learn to do this. I like mine like this", she bit at the remaining piece of string after she had secured the knot. Tucking her hair behind her ear, and gnawing her lip a bit, she looked inside her fabric and string box for something.
"Nana, what were you humming?", I leaned my chair further back, balancing on it's hind legs.
"Just a song. Stop leaning on the chair, you're going to fall", she said finally looking over at me, but not really seeing me.
"What's the song about? The sun?", I said - ignoring her request and now rocking the chair back and forth, hitting the back of it softly against the wall and staring at the sun beginning to make it's way down the sky.
"No. About a boy who used to sing to a girl he was in love with. Stop rocking the chair, you're going to fall", she said a bit more sternly and started to embroider the leaves for her flowers in a bright green.
"Why did he stop singing, Nana? No I'm not." I swayed my legs wildly as I felt the chair wobble, giggling.
"Because her dad didn't want them to be in love, so he lied to his daughter and told her the boy didn't love her anymore. She drank poison and died. The boy didn't sing again. Stop it with the chair, Prieta. You're gonna fall and hurt yourself!", she snapped slightly at me.
"Nana, why do you sing sad songs? Sing happy songs. About the sun and kissing!", I said loudly as I pushed my chair back strongly, with both feet planted on the balcony beam. Immediately I felt a snap in the plastic material and the chair give way under me, making me fall backwards and bumping my head on the floor.
She looked over at me as I started to tear up and was rubbing the back of my head. It burned and the wait for her to scream out her long stream of curse words and 'I told you so' was grueling. But, after a few seconds she pushed her glasses back down to the tip of her nose and said "Because I like sad songs and when you grow up, you will too...go get another chair".
I quickly went to the opposite end of the balcony and dragged a metal chair this time, and started leaning back on it as she resumed her humming.
"Nana..." I started.
"You're going to fall again", she said as she stared at the cars making their way up and down our corner of the mountains.
I let my chair fall forward and sat up straight. I stared a the cars for a few minutes with her in silence before I resumed, "...can we do orange flowers now?"
She looked over and pulled me on her lap, kissing the bump on the back of my head before combing my hair with her fingertips and pulling it back up in a tidier pony tail again.
She put the new pillowcase on my lap and spread it neatly, before handing me a needle with bright orange thread.
"Yes, you can do it. I only like pink and red."
Can i be the one falling from the chair while we sit on your balcony in Puerto Rico as you embroider orange flowers on a pillowcase for my room??? ;) Beautiful memory. <3
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