This is a Thread

When I was seven, my grandfather called me into his room.
He was old, and he spoke in a voice that was soft and scratchy and hard to hear. He coughed frequently, and Dad said that because of his heavy smoking in his younger days, he wouldn't be here soon.
He placed me on his lap as he sat in his favourite chair, and ruffled my golden hair.
"Sarah," he said, holding something in his hand, "this is a thread. I want you to keep it."
I took the thread from him and examined it. It was warm in my fingers, and glowed in the sunlight.
"What's so special about it?" At that age, I'd already discovered the value of money and was hoping for a dollar or two.
"Well," he leaned back into his chair, and I leaned with him into his warmth, "It's a magic thread."
"A magic thread? What kind of magic does it do?"
"It remembers people. See, a long time ago when grandmother was still around, she used to sow beautiful dresses. Your mother wears that blue dress sometimes? That was grandmother's. This thread was from one of her spools. I've kept it for years. When I look at it, I remember all the love that she gave me, and I liked to think that maybe, some of her love went into this thread, too." He coughed.
"I like grandmother's dresses. They're so pretty." I twisted the thread between my fingers.

"Sarah, don't disturb your grandfather. Come out here and play." My father was looking in, frowning. I nodded and left.
"Bye."
Grandfather held up his hand to wave goodbye.

At the funeral, I remember clenching my fists so tightly that my fingernails would leave marks on my palm, grasping the thread in my right hand. The rain fell steadily.
And in my head, I told Grandfather, I love you, I'll remember you, how you played with me and fed me, how you loved Grandmother.

I kept the thread my last years in school, my first boyfriend, my first break-up, my parents' divorce.
When I looked at the thread and held it, no matter how hard things were at the moment, when life seemed about come come crashing down on my head, I would remember how my grandfather felt as he hugged me. How he whispered words of encouragement as he helped me up, like the thread was some kind of magical connection between me and where my grandparents were in heaven. They were up there, smiling and laughing, watching over me.

When the thread finally broke, I was sad, but I smiled. Because I knew the people who'd loved me wouldn't need something so inconsequential as a thread. They were there, in my heart.