Bound by Thread, More Free than Ever
Content Warnings: death, grief, dementia
Part One: Death is Not the End
“I've had this sweater for, oh, about eight years.” Her brow wrinkling further, she cares more for the sentiment and the story than the time spent. “You know, your grandfather bought this for me on our anniversary trip to Sicily.” Then she smiles meekly to her granddaughter, wordlessly regaling the memory. “I had hoped to wear it for longer. But change is due, I suppose.”
She shifts uncomfortably at the thought, ruffling her hospital blues. Her raspy voice struggles to traverse the air above the noise of children nearby, undoubtedly burning the last of her fuel.
“It is quite raggedy and misshapen. I can't remember what the print says anymore, and the pocket is… well, simply not usable. More than anything else, it warms my soul,” she trails off, eyes then refocusing. “This has not only been my sweater all these years, you know. I wear it for the birds.”
“The birds, Nini?” Her graying grandson leans to his sister, whisper escaping the corner of his mouth, “Is she talking about birds again?” more an argument than a genuine question. To only his detriment, she's learned to muffle his noises.
“There are no birds, remember? And you've had this sweater longer than I've been alive. If you can even call it a sweater anymore,” his nose wrinkles with the kind of disgust only the entitled have the means to display, “It's looking more like what our cleaners would use behind a toilet.”
Sister now strikes him with a gaze that could shout one step closer and you're dead. Thankfully, she carries no physical weapons today. She allows her face to drop into the love she carries for her family. “We know that Popo gave you this, though, Nini. It's hard to let go, even after so long.” Tightening her fingers around Nini's furled hands, she relays her warmth and affection built through her memories thus far. After all, her grandparents passed this love onto her.
The essence of Popo would live on through the eyes of this everloving woman, were she not so unspritely anymore. “Your Popo was the most thoughtful man I've met, even today.” Her eyes unfocus once more with the love that carries her away and back to him. “I never knew I could love someone like this until him.”
Receiving the love through her granddaughter's hands, she accepts by prying open her own, reciprocating the squeeze and allowing her thoughts to drift again toward territory well-traveled. The beeping, once startling and incessant, has now become a white noise, a comfort, a wall between her frail body and her wandering spirit. Though she may hear, she does not listen, not when her love is calling her home.
When she comes to again, Nini finds her gaze set on her sweater once more.
“Did I ever tell you that your Popo gifted me this sweater on one of our anniversary trips? I must have had it for maybe eight years now…”
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Part Two: It is Only the Beginning
Eternities will fit neatly into a week with the loss of unconditional love. This granddaughter and now-mother feels like she might be floating from one reality to the next. With the tune of her family's night routine – the clattering of dishes, the Bluey theme, and a father gone livestock for his cowpoke children – she finds herself settling into her Nini's favorite spot on the porch swing.
As she nestles, she slides out of her house slippers and sinks into the cushions where her Nini would wait patiently for her after school. Before his passing, her Popo would join, his arms wrapping her like the gift she was, his voice whispering the love song that coaxed her there to begin with. He made sure to share that story with their beloved granddaughter along with the lyrics for any moments Nini might find herself without him. Of course, as sweetly as it sounded from him, she swelled with joy at the love they had passed down to their future generations.
The tears well and they spill upon the sweater that Nini held so dearly. At this moment, she decides to wear it, even through the struggle of finding which hole was a sleeve or not. She wonders how Nini managed through her cataracts and forgetfulness as she pulls her long hair the rest of the way through. Then she brings her lukewarm cocoa to her lips, carried by Nini's favorite mug, and allows the scent to unlock the door to reminiscence. With one last sip, she settles again, leans on her arm, and shuts her grieving eyes.
Tittering and tugging awaken her. Exhaustion seeping through every last pore, the only muscles she deigns to move are her eyelids. With her hand outstretched onto the porch railing, she has somehow attracted a bird.
Curious, though unbothered, she remains still, looking but hardly seeing, as the bird is picking at Nini's sleeve. It sets sight on a loose thread set atop the unraveling seam.
It needs not to pull, as this sweater is held together only by the love the generations will carry, and maybe the extra mismatched thread that Nini had sewn into it when attempting to teach her granddaughter mending. If only she had caught on to the lesson back then.
The bird, having garnered its precious resource, flitters to the willow tree centered in the yard, finding her focus on its non-insignificance. Though the tree weeps, it carries within it the most joyous of experiences – two chirping chicks, begging a hard-at-work mother to return again with their own dinner. She chuckles to herself at the thought that all children are the same when she notices the threads of Nini's sweater wound into the nest.
Nini and Popo taught the sort of love that was clearly beyond chemical. At its core, it was spiritual, bound by the contract they had drawn with dancing steps into their own personal oblivion. The bliss of their union had unwittingly birthed a new cycle – one with which love would always carry on, despite all else fading with time.
She is now burdened with this feathery truth, as she observes the kindness of her own two children within the chicks of a threaded nest, and she resigns herself to multiply these ripples as this love has intended.
I never knew until now that your birds are real, Nini. Your love is more powerful than even I knew it to be.
