For as long as I can remember, my grandmother has been knitting a quilt. To the point that every holiday, she required us to gift her different colors of yarn instead of presents. I counted in total how many balls of yarn we’d gift her a year between my mother, my brother, and myself; in total, she’d receive 12 balls of yarn every year. But despite her being very “yarn-rich”, none of us have ever seen the quilt she’s been knitting. Nor have we ever been gifted so much as a sweater from all her balls of yarn. Whenever I’d ask her how her quilt is coming along, she’d put her wrinkled hand in the air and wave me away while saying “almost done, almost done”. I’ve heard her say that for the past 22 years of my life and still, no quilt. My brother and I used to always joke around and place bets on how old we’d be before we ever saw one of her quilts finished. One time we went as high as 50 years old before our mother told us it’s not nice to make fun of old women. That’s classic mom though; she hasn’t really been into jokes since our father left. One winter, we got a call saying that our grandmother was sick and in the hospital. When we went to go visit her I couldn’t believe my eyes; on her lap, was a pink and white quilt. I watched as she struggled to catch her breath, while at the same time, her fingers moved with a graceful speed. Two weeks later, we found out that she passed away. As we drove up to her house to empty out her things, I wondered about the pink and white quilt. As we were cleaning out her bedroom later that day, there were three cardboard boxes with my mothers, my brothers, and my name scribbled on top. When we opened each box, our eyes welled up with tears. Each box had an array of sweaters, mittens, and the most beautiful quilts I’ve ever seen. That’s when I knew, our grandmother was knitting the ultimate present for us, throughout all these years.

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