My mom owned a loom of one kind or another in all of the houses we lived in while I was growing up.

After she died, an old family friend returned one of Luanna’s early needlepoint pillow cases, but I haven’t seen her weaving work in years.

I don’t recall her much sitting at a loom. I remember her more as a weaver of tales: tall tales, long tales, family fairy tales.

She would pull a cigarette out of a package with slender, elegant fingers, and flash a brilliant smile that hinted at the gold teeth in the back of her mouth. She could size up her audience in seconds. A precocious and beautiful youngest child, she owned every room she walked into, and I was an eager listener.

“Did I ever tell you how I got these?” she’d ask, pointing to her mouth.

I shook my head even though I’d heard the story before.

“I ate oranges every night before bed and never brushed my teeth.”

My aunt claimed later that the culprit was Coca-Cola; I like my mom’s version better.

The stories are getting hazy, but I still see the glint of gold. My mother came from weavers. I come from weavers.