For a few years a take small branches with me from walks I make. At home I'll cover them up in a colorful coat. When I knit up the coat I go through al sorts of memories. The colorful sticks just make me happy. People ask to tell about the trip I made when picking up certain sticks but I do not remember which stick comes from which walk. Though the sticks are all there. The one I picked from my parents garden when my mom had just passed away, the one that became mine during a very painful walk/conversation with my girlfriend, the one when I decided to go through operation. Even the one that came from the tree that Anne Frank saw during WOII which she wrote about in her diary.
3 comments:
Nice to see your blog too! I pick up stones...I don't do much with them and then I tend to forget where they each come from. Perhaps I shall take some ideas from you on this. I want to hold onto the memories of place.
"the one when I decided to go through the operation"...welke tak is dat? je a
Dag Gini, I read and like your blog very much. It still doesn't seem possible to leave a comment there. Feel free to use any idea. I am curious as to what turns out of them in your hands.
Dag Ans, I do remember the one that I picked up after we first met though.
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