My Oma was always making.
Baking, cooking, sewing, painting, crocheting, knitting, embroidering.
Creating art on wood, on velvet, on rocks, or with seashells.
She left behind pillows, blankets, doilies, potholders and cookbooks with handwritten notes in the margins.
I have things all over my house that she made and I love that I can hold in my hands the things that her hands created.
She died when I was a teenager and although I’ve heard the stories from her life, all my life, I never heard them directly from her because she spoke primarily German and mine is not good.
Now that I’m an adult, a wife, a mother, I wish I could hear her stories. I wish I could know her as an adult.
I’d love to show her my knitting and learn from her.
I’d like to tell her that I also love snails.
I want her to know that I sleep under her special satin blanket, the one she kept folded and hidden under an old sheet so it wouldn’t get faded or dusty. I’d tell her that I love the way the duvet cover feels and that the stitches in her embroidery are perfect.
I wish I could tell her that I think about her often.
I’d want her to see what a lasting impact she made on the world, and on me.