Some of my fondest memories in childhood are from time spent with my grandmother, “Gramma”. She was something else! She lived with us for most of my early childhood and while the truth of the matter is that I was probably underfoot while she went about her daily routine, Gramma made me feel like the most welcome companion. She sang to me in Creole. She fed me soda crackers with butter and cheese – her daily breakfast. And when she put on her face powder, she dabbed my cheeks too. Her dresser drawers were filled with fabulous treasures…well, “treasures” to my five year old mind. Thimbles, pin cushions, hat pins, sachets and darning eggs. The idea of sewing socks is something from a bygone era, but I feel extraordinary pleasure at the memory of Gramma spending the afternoon mending socks and giving me permission to handle her darning eggs.
I recall eggs kept in the corners
Of the very top drawer of the dresser
Could these be magic eggs?
What secret did they hold inside?
If I sat on one long enough
What being might hatch from within?
Those are darning eggs.
Eggs purposed for sewing socks.
Toe holes poked through;
Heels worn thin.
What has become of the darning egg?
What has become of us with no time for darning?
Plentiful, expendable socks
Tossed thoughtlessly in the trash
As we traipse to the market for more.
Will a 12-pack keep our feet adequately covered?
No magic in that