I grabbed this little cutting board today, as I do several times a week, and suddenly a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I made this for my grandmother when I was ten, under the watchful eye of my father, who having had four daughters, never passed up an opportunity to do boyish things with me. I don’t remember her reaction when I gave it to her, although I can imagine just how she would have looked, happy and proud. When it was returned to me after her passing, it had hundreds of cuts in it. I had forgotten all about it, but clearly she had used it over the years. Suddenly, all those knife marks symbolized her love of family and feeding others. It makes me happy to see the lines I make, mesh with hers, both of us probably daydreaming while preparing dinner. I like to believe that the marks she made on this board, held her sweetness and the love she had for others, the generosity of her soul and her gift of making all feel special, and that a piece of her could be passed on to me like some magical kind of osmosis. I wondered what she thought about when she was using it. I’m pretty sure she was thinking of me, as I think of her now, 35 years later.
