I owe my patience to my grandmother. I grew up with her. One of my earliest memories is of me in her living room catching the pollen in the air without stopping. Or how I stuck beads on a knitting needle, in all possible variations. When I was done, I would return all the beads to the tin box and start over again. On New Year’s Eve, when I was eight, we spent the evening together. That evening she taught me to knit. To knit and purl. My designs led me to a ball of wool, my experiments brought me to knotting a chain. My thoughts and trials came together in a little knitwear of chain. A tribute to my grandmother, in other words. She gave me my first bracelet, my first jewellery box, my first knitting lesson. She died unexpectedly during a time when I was abroad a lot. Deceased loved ones don’t return, but we cherish the moments that we had together. We carry them with us. Close to our heart.