Interwoven
My grandmother, Nana, taught me how to braid. She pulled me up to the circular dining table as I held on to my stuffed animal, placing him into a chair next to me. I watched Nana focus as she cut three pieces of green yarn, fern green yarn. The strings were a modest length, but to a six-year-old, they looked like my height. As she taped the three strings to the table, she explained the art of braiding.
“Grab one piece from the right and bring it to the middle, then a piece from the left and bring that to the middle.”
“What happens if you forget what string you're on?” I asked, anxious to mess up the beautiful pattern.
“Well then,” Nana paused, looking at me with her kind eyes, “then you just look at what string is in the back and help it forward.”
That was how my grandma was, “pull the string from the back”, take the forgotten piece, and give it a little attention- that’s how she was with her four grandchildren. She was always fair, with Christmas presents, lunch dates, and tight hugs. Birthdays were filled with Nana time, and sleepovers were spent in her company, watching her flip the morning pancakes. We would count the chocolate chips put into every pancake, making sure that another cousin didn’t get more.
She was always fair, as a school teacher, she had to be. It was second nature to her to give a little more attention to the kid in the back. She was the type of teacher that people would tell stories about. She connected with her students when they were older, always a generous Facebook friend. She was invited to their weddings and sent pictures of her old students' children. “Mrs.Rankin,” they would say, “you were my favorite teacher.” I remember hearing that a lot growing up, holding the weight of such words. But for her, it was just a normal compliment.
My first introduction to religion was at my grandma's church. Saturday nights at Nana's house meant church and Sunday school in the morning. My parents weren’t religious, pushing it away in their adult lives, but my grandma continued. I always admired her commitment and the way she would volunteer to teach Sunday school; she was always a teacher even after retiring. She always wanted to give. Giving her kindness, giving her love, and especially giving her time, Nana always had time to give. She would pick my cousins and me up from elementary school when our parents were busy; she would drive across the city just to make her children's days a little bit easier. When Nana appeared, you knew that your bad day would be turned upside down. After a rough day, she would sit behind me and brush my hair. Usually, I requested a braid; it was a secret language of our love as we would giggle at each other in the mirror. It was those moments when I sat in front of a mirror with my grandma towering over me that I felt most at home. Though my brown hair felt out of place among the blond genes of my family, my grandma never made me feel different. My Moroney genes were strong; yet she made me feel like a Rankin through and through. As she would twist my brown hair into a tight braid, my world would feel alright.
Nana had the best hugs, a bony embrace that I would crave after not seeing her for a couple of weeks. There were times when I was scared that I would never hug her again. COVID-19 was one of my worst fears, mainly because of the fact that it had the possibility of taking my person away from me. Christmas was spent on opposite sides of the garage with masks on, and birthdays became lunches on the patio; one side cramped all eight of us, my parents, sister, cousins, aunt, and uncle, the other side held Nana and my Grandpa, Papa. They would smile at us from the other side of the porch and ask about our days, even when they knew we would all sputter the same boring answer, “Zoom school.” Our favorite tradition as a family was the time we spent telling jokes. Leading up to a gathering, we would collect the best and worst jokes we could find,
“Why don’t scientists trust atoms?” Papa asked, leaning over his notepad so Nana couldn’t sneak a look. The other side of the patio looked at each other, trying to mumble it to ourselves like that would reveal the answer. “Cause they make everything up,” Papa finished. We all sat there giggling at the bad dad joke. Papa always had a bad dad joke.
“Insurance companies are warning people that if their tents are stolen, they won’t be covered,” My aunt said next. There was no punch line, but it still sent all ten of us into laughter. I clutched my side as I tried to catch my breath and gripped the patio furniture for support.
“That was so bad,” My mom said, shaking her head with a smile on her face.
“I think I like Papas better,” My cousin, Em, said from the corner.
“I have another,” Papa announced as he scanned his list. “What does eating raw garlic have to do with preventing COVID-19?” The patio remained silent as we tried to reason with how garlic connected to preventing COVID, “It helps keep everyone at a safe distance.” We groaned as we looked across the deck. A funny joke about bad breath reminded us of our awful predicament.
Nana laughed at our fake displeasure and grabbed Papa's arms, “Don’t worry, we’ll get vaccines soon enough.” I was hoping more than anything that that was true. We knew getting vaccines was the next step, but it still felt like a lifetime away.
You don’t know what you’ve lost until it's gone, they say, and they were right. For over a year, there were no sleepovers and lunch dates. No afternoons were spent baking and getting beaten in card games. No braids were thoughtfully woven into my hair. Sometimes I would braid my hair, reminiscent of a better time, but something always looked off. The hair wouldn’t section right, and the pieces would end up different lengths.
The decision to move across the country came easily for me. I always craved a life outside of Colorado; the boundaries of Denver weren’t big enough for me. Nana, always a supporter of my education, came as a fast advocate.
“Don’t worry about us here. It’s time to make your own decisions,” Nana said as we sat on the couch together. She held onto my arm while my dog begged her to be pet from the ground, “Alright, Boomer, I got you.” She laughed at him as she leaned down to include him in the conversation; Nana’s fairness again and again. “Please update me,” she said as she leaned over for a hug, “Nana wants to know what's happening in your life.”
Years flew by 2023, 2024, 2025. Suddenly, a majority of my year was spent in Boston. My favorite place in the world somehow didn’t include my favorite people, a reality which I didn’t know was possible years before. What turned into a reconnection of the summer slowly started shrinking away as I pushed further from Denver. As I return for the holidays, come the New Year, Nana and Papa jet off to Arizona; years of frigid Illinois, Iowa, and Colorado winters had turned them into snowbirds. They escape the worst time to live in Denver for February golf sessions and pickleball practices. As we both carve new paths, there's a sense of solidarity, making decisions to make yourself happier. Boston has given me a life I never could have imagined in Denver. This city has allowed me to gain confidence in myself and what’s possible for me.
It’s been almost three years since I graduated from high school. Three years since I committed to four years in Boston. Three years since I had a close relationship with Nana. Our relationship has grown farther apart geographically, and in how much we talk. No braids before sleepovers and after school. Instead, I sit at my desk in a rickety chair and take a deep breath. My comb rests in the drawer to my right, and I separate my middle part with caution of every singular hair. I grab three pieces, trying to keep them equal, but I always fail a little bit. Most days, it’s one braid cascading down my back with split ends to accessorize. I start the braid - right over, left over, right over, left over, but somewhere in my rhythm, I lose the strand I was on. I take a deep breath and search for the hair in the back, but the stubborn hair won’t announce its presence, leaving me flustered and angry. It used to be easier, but I’ve slowly lost my skills as I stop doing my hair every day, usually opting for a clip or ponytail.
-Maggie Moroney
Maggie Moroney is a soon-to-be graduate of Emmanuel College, Boston. She majored in writing, editing, and publishing with a minor in communications. Maggie has a passion for storytelling and hopes to work in the book publishing industry after graduation. You can find her @Maggie.Moroney on all social media platforms.