I found a poem in the strong words of my grandmother’s advice.

Sitting on her husband’s brown ratty chair he used long ago
Spindles, weaves, and string of bright colors cover her frail skeleton of a body as she knits
Humming along to the rock ‘n roll tunes of Elvis Presley’s Jailhouse Rock
She brushes her gray, stringed hair to the side of her head
I sit down next to her on a brown leather couch and reach for the vivid string colors
Trying again and again my brain spins as I try to figure out how to start
Her tongue clicks as she looks up at the contraption I seem to be knitting
I’m close to giving up when she takes her aged hand and rests it on my cheek,
Sweet dear,
(I was never referred to as anything but)
Knitting is like life,
You can’t make things too complicated and knotted all the time,
Learn to weave through your problems.
Taking my sore, tired hands
She shows me effortlessly how to fix the tangled stringed mess I created
My tense shoulders relax and I sigh deeply
She looks up at me with her hazel green eyes,
Filled with more advice
Her soft wrinkled hand gently squeezes mine.