by a golden thread

I don't remember much about Aunt Vie and Aunt Leah, except that they were old. Not old as in aged, rather wise and sweet. Seasoned, yet young at heart. They lived by a school and taught school. Their house smelled old, but not the bad old. Just lived in. It smelled of fancy soaps, and spices and beautiful things. Though age and experiences separated us we were connected by a golden thread like those that ran through the antique furniture in their front room. A thread linking old and young and joining generations. We'd play hand games and sing "Mairzy Doats and Dozy Doats," together in the living room with Grandma.

They had learned and loved and traveled, leaving their mark on the world and letting the world leave her mark on them. There were flecks of silver in their twinkly eyes from walks on distant sandy shores. Rosy spots on their cheeks from sunny days on the highest hilltops. Secret spices from far away lands baked right into their world-famous ginger snap cookies kept in a tin on the counter for the taking. Like birds gathering twigs, they had picked up little pieces of the world and brought them back to their little nest of a house on Roosevelt Avenue, beautifying it for any and all who might land there.

When Leah became too ill to care for herself, she spent most of the time in her bed. She would have Aunt Vie would braid her hair. I imagine they would talk of their adventures, each strand of hair joined together like a memory, creating something beautiful and full and round, like Leah's life. We would take turns sitting beside Aunt Leah, holding her hand and telling her what we were learning in school. There was a large dresser directly across from her bed that held keepsakes and treasures from her travels. I could see my reflection next to hers. There we were young and old, connected by an unbreakable chain stretching through time and space, across continents and country borders. Through thick forests. Along the ocean floor. Across open plains with wind-blown wheat fields, right back through the front door of the Roosevelt house.

When Leah moved onto the place beyond this world, it was Aunt Vie's turn to let time slowly sift away at her. Grandma came to look after her then, keeping the house in order. She braided hair, perfected the ginger snap recipe and and sang songs with us by Aunt Vie's bedside.

Grandma is still here in her own house full of furniture with golden threads, the link from this life to the next. She keeps her sisters close in spirit and in deed, still singing, "Here's a Ball for Baby," and "Mairzy Doats." The other day among Grandpa's things I found some mirrors of Aunt Leah's. I picked them up and stared at my reflection. As if looking through a window to what used to be, I was back in the front room on Roosevelt with the green chairs. The golden thread glistening off the glass.