Last weekend, my best friend and I went to an early Christmas bazaar. I’m not much on decorations, but they were also selling baked goods and various knitted items.

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.