Generations of Falling in Love

Just as class began the door swung open, interrupting the teacher mid-sentence. There he was, standing tall and young, entering his third year of college. Meanwhile, she sat in the first row, taking notes rigorously on every word the teacher uttered. She could not be bothered. That is until she caught a glimpse of the bright blue sweater. The sweater that my (now) grandma had made. This blue knitted sweater is the story of how my mom met my dad.

The world is full of people who somehow all have such a distinct story. When I look in the mirror, I used to see myself as a unique individual with so many ups and downs, and so many stories. But looking closer, I begin to notice my eyebrows. They are such a distinct feature from my grandpa. The image of my mother as a child with curls sweeping over her face crosses my mind as I comb through my curls, being gentle to not hurt the image of my mother's youth. I glance over the birthmark on my right shoulder and am reminded that my mother and grandmother share the same one. The birthmark once caused me to stray away from purchasing dresses just to hide it from sight, but in reality, it’s a love letter passed from generation to generation. Every feature of me has been generously passed down by love.

My grandmother and grandfather share their love through culture. In a city called Bhopal in India, I walk into their house and am greeted by the scent of fresh spices simmering in the oil on the gas stove. My grandmother's hands neatly chop up vegetables to place into the mix, she likes to cook with the colors of the rainbow. I see their love story passed on to my mother, as she replicates my grandmother's swift movements within her kitchen here at home. She cooks with my grandmother's spices, even importing some freshly ground ones all the way from India. Their love is shared in cooking.

For me, love is stitched into fabrics. My closet is a memoir of my grandparents' experiences. For a Diwali day, I look through my closet for the perfect item of clothing, glancing over the traditional clothing my grandparents purchased from me. My grandmother believes in memories formed through clothing. I heard my mother and grandmother chatting in their room and was eager to see what they were talking about. When I walked in, I was met with a beautiful piece of fabric with embroidered designs decorating it. Embroidered designs, done by my grandmother, of people and nature lay on this long stretch of fabric called a saree. My grandmother was handing it to my mother for her to keep. Now that my grandmother had gotten her use out of it, she wished for my mother to keep it – a family heirloom displaying the power of love through clothing.

Now when I swing open the doors of my filled closet in my apartment. I am reminded of the history of each piece of clothing. From where I bought it to who I bought it with, or even who gave it to me, every piece has a story. I glance over my dad’s dark blue sweatshirt I stole when I was running out of clothes to wear before washing. My best friend's college sweatshirt lays in my drawer, tying us together no matter how far the distance. The permanent bracelet on my right arm carries a small charm – the circle of harmony. On a trip to Greece for my parents' anniversary, they walked into a small shop and bought me a pendant of their love. I immediately attached it to my bracelet. Even when I walked into my dad’s closet, sneakily stealing a baggy sweatshirt from him to wear to school, I would catch a glimpse of that very same blue sweater that my mother would recall in her stories. And it is at that moment, that I realized, I too am wholly stitched by love.