Nine Tall Elegant Angels

Her first name is printed with a capital letter followed by lowercase letters, Edith, but her last name is printed in all caps, LARSEN. They're black ink letters written by my Mom onto a fabric label she sewed on the lower left corner of the back side of the afghan. The front of the wool afghan is decorated with nine beautiful angels dressed in blue and rose and pink robes and they're lovely, tall, graceful angels with each one standing a good 14" tall. Everyone I've ever known who's seen a real angel has commented on how tall they are, very tall in fact. So, it's fitting that the nine gracing the afghan are tall and elegant. And, they're old, which is fitting, too, because angels are eternal. I think this team of angels is close to thirty years old at this point. 

My Mom gave this afghan to Grandma Edith in the mid-90's to keep her warm in the "old folks home" in Sidney, Montana. After she died in 1997, Mom gave me the afghan because my Grandma and I had always been close.

Then, in 2012, it was time to add another name to the label. This time the ink was red and the name, Virginia Rowland, was written in my hand. I gave it to my Mom to stay warm when I had to place her in a care facility in Montana.  Six years later she died and the nine elegant angels returned to my room.

As the cooler, wetter Oregon weather is now here the angels are upon my bed most nights. As I write this piece I'm looking at the label with my grandmother's name in my Mom's hand and my Mom's name in my hand. It seems they accompany me, like these angels, as I sleep. They are part of the team that surrounds, holds, and keeps me safe.

Of course, in life each generation had it's struggles with the previous one. Mothers and daughters are often a lightning mix of love and conflict. Edith and Virginia were at odds as much as they loved each other. My Mom and I were no different. One of the graces in her dementia is that she always knew me and as she started taking her leave of this world she said, "I love you, Sherri" two days before she died.

For all the struggles and for all the love there is but one fact, one truth, one foundation: both of these women, Edith Larsen and Virginia Rowland, are my maternal heritage. This afghan reminded them they weren't alone, even when separated by hundreds of miles from the rest of us. Now it reminds me they were here and I am never without them.

I'm not in a facility and I don't think anyone has plans to put me in one (!), but maybe this is a good task to complete early, to handle, to check off my list: I need to add my own name.

Edith, Virginia, and Sher resting in the safe care of nine tall, elegant angels. 

What a comfort, what a relief.