The bag contained a red ball of yarn and a partially
completed, hand-crocheted blanket. I had been sorting my mother’s possessions,
intending to donate her craft items to her friends at the local Craft Club. When
I first saw the blanket I considered unraveling the yarn – perhaps someone
else would be able to use it?
But when I picked the blanket up, it was warm and soft, and it
gave me pause. I saw an image of Mum’s hands holding it as she crocheted. Suddenly
the blanket was too personal, almost intimate, and I resolved it had another
purpose.
A few days later, I searched for my crochet hook and sat
with the blanket on my knees as I worked my way around the edge using a double
crochet stitch. I thought about the importance Mum had placed on the simple
pleasure of making the blanket, even though she was unwell, and her stitches
showed her deterioration. I chose not to unpick those sometimes ragged
stitches, instead working them into the final pattern, wrapping my own stitches
around them like a hug.
Hooking the yarn, I also thought of my grandmothers who had
helped me as I leaned a new crochet stitch or struggled with a doily pattern. I
wondered if they knew the skills they taught me would be used on a day such as
this?
When I give the blanket to Mum’s great-grand-daughter, my
grand-niece, this practical heirloom will wrap together, with knowledge and love, five generations of women.
