How a Grandmother’s Afghan Keeps an Emotional Connection Alive

My grandmother’s tchotchkes were the parts that made up her world, the dust-collecting bric-a-brac that told her life story. When she finally consented to move into an assisted-living facility, the reality hit her like a tempest, forcing her to take that world apart. She needed me, and I agreed to help.

During one packing-up visit, she surveyed the assemblage on the dining room table and asked me what I wanted to remember her by. Cake stands, dainty saucers, my grandfather’s kiddush cup—all of it stared up at me. I joked that I already inherited her bunions, but had no other answer. I wanted everything and I wanted nothing because I wanted her instead. She chose items for me she knew I would regret not taking and wrapped them in pages from the Post.

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