I hold it in my hand,
and give it a spin or two.
It came into being through a joint effort.
My grandmother used the thread that emptied the wooden bobbin.
And from it, my grandfather whittled the tiny homemade top.
This, I remember.
Waiting, while he opened his pocket knife.
Waiting, while he turned round the wooden bobbin.
Waiting, while he shaved the tubular shape triangular.
Waiting, while he tested and balanced.
Waiting, while he found a just right stick for the centre piece.
Waiting, while he carved that round and to a point.
Waiting, while he set the two together and adjusted.
I hold it in my hand
and give it a spin or two.
It was not just a new toy,
nor the spinning,
that gave delight,
it was the sweet homemade anticipation.
And this I treasure.
Does this reflection remind you of a story?
