Threads of Love

Over the last few days I have been going through closets and drawers and trunks trying to organize things before we move. While doing so I came across several things from my Grandma.

If America's florists tell us to "say it with flowers," my Grandma said it with yarn. With blankets, crocheting afghans to spread her love all around her family. Every birth, move, marriage is marked by one of these tangible measures of affection. Grandma could whip up an afghan in no time flat. Her hands would fly through the yarn like a bird through a cloud. Catching the yarn with her crochet hook and drawing it through the loops, her hands were a wild blur of motion. I wish I could say I inherited this knack for needlework, but it isn't so. When I was younger, my grandmother valiantly attempted to pass this special art to me. After about five hours of crocheting and unraveling, all I had to show for myself was a single chain of yarn about four times my height. While I don't share her gift, I do bask in the memories her afghans evoke. Each one she made for us became a woven monument to a milestone, and the maps of our lives can be traced back through the threads of our blankets. As babies, my children were welcomed into the world with soft swaths of pink or blue. As a child, I knew that I wasn't truly tucked into bed on a chilly night until I had my toes weighed down by the heft of one of Grandma's afghans. If you can still move under the covers, you probably ought to add another blanket.

I am amazed that something so full of holes can keep you so warm, but I am pretty sure that those holes are filled with love.