The Ball of Yarn

Sitting on the highest shelf
Of the hall closet
Sat a ball of yarn.

This tightly wound yarn
Was wound by women,
Young  now old or
Long gone and all
That remained of them
All was the ball of yarn.

I knew nothing of the yarn
Until one day I was dared
To climb to the highest shelf
By my brother, a know it all
Who found pleasure in challenging me.

When asked what I saw
Up there on that top shelf,
I said nothing, schooling my face
To hold an expression of
Indifference.

I had no desire to share
My discovery as I was sure
My brother would claim it
As his own.

While my brother plunked the keys
Of Mrs. Alexander's old piano,
The metronome keeping time
In front of him,
I climbed to the highest shelf
For the second time and
Retrieved the ball of yarn.

I sat it on my bed
And observed it at every angle,
It was tightly wound with
Just a bit of yarn hanging free.

Without thinking, I reached for
My old blanket, Blankie,
A gift from Great Aunt Martha.
A fine granny square that
Had seen better days.

Methodically, I unravelled
Two rows of yarn and attached
It to the yarn hanging from the ball.
As tightly as I could
I wound my yarn around the ball.

As I wound,
I thought of my life so far,
From my first memory
To today and as
The last memory faded away,
The yarn from my Blankie ran out.

I had lost track of time
And I heard my brother coming,
I quickly hid the ball
Under my bead and reached
For a comic book.

I soon forgot about the ball,
But as I grew older,
I would rediscover it
And without thinking,
I would add yarn to the ball,
I would add memories to the ball.

I eventually lost the ball,
I was much older and
Had a little girl
Who called me mama.

Somehow I knew that
It was time for me to let go
Of the ball of yarn
For it to be found by
A little girl who will
Add her yarn, her memories
To the ball of yarn.