When I was a child, my favourite pastime was playing with toy cars with my grandma. I used to wait for her to finish the work she did throughout the day and sit on the bed, waiting for her to come.

The cars were always ready. I put them in order for her to choose which one she wanted. She sat down carrying an air of comfortability around her. She chose her car and nudged it towards me. I chose my car and then we crashed them, raced them.

I used to watch the race from the level of the bed. I stooped my head down to the bed, close one of my eyes and watch the race unfold. It always felt like the bed sheet became the road and my grandmother a giant. It felt as if I became little, more than I really was, as little as the cars.

I always wanted to win the race. Why wouldn’t I? My prize was precious to me.
To put the thread in the needle for my grandmother as she knitted clothes away for me.
I always won and my eyes glistened when she gave the thread and the needle to me.
Whenever she tried putting it in by herself she couldn’t. Her eyesight made it rather difficult for her.

When I stood on the bed sheet road with the needle shining brightly under the light, one of my eyes closed to start the labour of putting the thread inside the teeny tiny hole. It never felt like a task then, but a prized experience that I looked forward to.

The prize may not be enough for me now given the greed that has increased with our age but it is one of the fondest memories I have of childhood. I miss the struggle to put the thread in the needle. To be able to help my grandmother and a hug that made everything all right.

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