My grandmother was one of those short and stout Scottish ladies with a pouf of white hair. She was always doing crewel work or knitting for her Methodist church ladies’ group. That’s the sort of thing I found at the sale.
Not much remains from my childhood–my baby ring, my first set of books, a set of miniature china, and a number of the things I used when helping Mom in the kitchen. Nothing remains of the ‘boy’ years. Not that I threw everything out, mind you. There was simply nothing to which I was attached.
Some of the remains of my childhood bring back pleasant memories. Like helping Mom bake for Christmas. Some only have a vague nostalgia associated with them. A scarf I found at the bazaar brought that same warmth when I first spotted it. Perhaps grandma knitted me a similar one. I don’t know. All that’s left, sometimes, are the shadows.