I have seen four generations of you.
The first made me. With strong and sure hands, he crafted me from white oak and memory. A humble artist weaving and twisting, weaving and twisting. Until, there was me.
The second watched from a distance as I was made, too busy to pay me much mind. Fiery in spirit, she had her own sense of self and creativity. She was the force to be reckoned with, the dreamer with too many dreams and too much passion. I would never know her so well as I knew her child.
I was gifted to him, the child of the second, the beginning of the third. And I took my place in his home, where I watched his family grow. At first, it was just me, him, and his wife. Then there were children, a dog, and a cat. Years passed, and I grew older. I watched this third generation provide for and love his family, and I knew that the love and pride that had been woven into me by the first was present in the third.
Looking back, I have lived a full and long life, though my handle has worn thin, and my splits are stained with time. Recently, I became a gift again and now find myself at home with the fourth. She looks at me often and with pride. I’m placed on a handmade stool in a prominent spot, where I watch her weave much like her great grandfather did so many years before. This fourth generation doesn’t weave wood to make baskets. Instead, she weaves intricate tales with a voice that is her own…and yet, she is a part of them all.
She has the artistry and skill of the first. The passion and dreams of the second. The love and pride of the third. She is you, the fourth.
I have seen four generations of you. I have witnessed the stories of your family, woven together through time and through me, a flawed and sturdy white oak basket, a holder of memories.
Author's Note: This was written for the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt: Personification. It went like this:
Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul?
The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.”
This week, tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness.
The white oak basket my Papa made long before I was even born has wanted to tell its tale for awhile. I thank Write on Edge for giving it the chance.
