The old spin-wheel has always been this grotesque thing on display in my grandmother’s bedroom. I’ve never seen her use it nor have I seen her give it a glance. It’s just there, occupying the corner, piquing my curiosity while driving me to the brink of insanity.
I have to know. Why is it there? I need to found out, to satisfy my curiosity, satiate my investigative journalistic mind. “Grandma, why do you have that thing?” I ask one day.
Without glancing up from her knitting, Grandma sighs, “It’s a coping mechanism.” She shakes her head. “It’s a long story.”