The Child

It was a bracing day in autumn that a young child spoke to Grandma. The winds had changed, the rains were falling, and the trees blazed with red. Warm as the wooden cottage was, it had aged with Grandma, and so the child asked, “Grandma? Would you knit me a sweater, as it is getting cold.”
Her reply, with warm, loving eyes turned upon her grandchild was, “Yes, child. I shall.” And so she did.
Hour after hour in her free time was spent at her knitting, with the child snuggled up close to her warm breast. Lulled by the peaceful rhythm of heartbeat and knitting needles, the child oftimes fell asleep on her lap.
The days went by in a storm of normalcy and routine. The child grew in determination and impatience in the face of the encroaching cold. It was ready. A red, warm, long-sleeved woolen sweater, knitted together by the love and determination of a grandmother fighting against her arthritic knuckles.
The child watched as Grandma slept one afternoon. She was truly at peace. Standing on a chair, the child tied the arms of the sweater securely around the water pipe overhead. The sweater looked so good from its hanging post, so warm and secure and loving. The child’s head went through the gap between the sweater and the water pipe.
It was only later, when winter was breaking, that a visitor found the Grandma and her grandchild. The Grandma looked at peace behind her frost, in stark contrast to the contorted, frozen figure on her lap.