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Creative Nonfiction Contemporary Sad

This story contains sensitive content

For family members of terminally ill individuals.


You take your time walking down the aisle, running your hand along the rows of skeins, giving each a gentle squeeze. Some are fluffy, thick cords of feathery fibers, while others are fuzzy like one long rope of pom poms. Some are thinner, strings of intertwining wool and cotton and silk, acrylic even. Some are rougher, not like hemp, but textured like a thousand individual hairs twisted together. You can feel the invisible fly away strands spiking upwards and yielding down against your touch.


The color doesn’t matter. You don’t need it to be pretty or bright or patterned. Some might tell you it should remind you of her; pick her favorite color. You might even be tempted to pick your own favorite color. But you know that’s not why you’re doing this. You know it won’t matter once it’s done. You just need it to feel right. You know there are many hours ahead of you, many hours of this yarn sliding against your fingers, pinched between the tips.


They said thirteen months. Google says less than three years. You have time, but not enough.


You’ve never made a blanket before. You’ve tried, but you've never quite made it to the end, always giving up halfway. You think of the first one you made, stuffed into a tote bag, left under your bed somewhere. But you can’t pick that one up again and try to finish it. That was for a boy, a boy you don’t even love anymore. You don’t even talk to that boy anymore. You understand why you didn’t finish that blanket and why you have to finish this one. You understand why they are two very different blankets. You understand why you have to start fresh.



No, you’ve never made a blanket before. But you’ve never grieved a loss before it’s happened, either.


Anticipatory grief, your therapist called it.


When your hand lands on this yarn, it is nothing extraordinary. It is soft, but not like the faux fur throw on your couch that instantly makes you sigh against its comforting touch. It is not soft like the fuzzy sweater you wear to work on foggy days without a shirt underneath because it is so cozy you feel like you haven’t even left bed. No, the skein in your hands is not like that. It's not the fluffy cotton or fuzzy wool you'd transform for an infant, wanting them to know instantly that the world is a good place. No, this yarn is for someone who has seen the ruthlessness of the world but still seeks out its kindness. It is soft. Just enough.


It is like her. It is like you. The duality of it is what makes you want to inspect further.


You finger the end of the roll and effortlessly move between the thin strands, working your way into the center, your favorite part. The density hugs your finger. You grip it back. This bundle is a mandala of blues and whites. The color doesn’t matter, but you can’t help but think of her eyes.


This is the one. You grab three. It’s enough to get you started.


You have a needle at home. You feel the urge, the empty hands, all day, but the sun is down when you begin. It starts with a knot, like the one in your stomach at your father’s voice when he told you. Like the one in your shoelaces when you were seven, calling her name from the living room floor, announcing proudly that you finally did it all by yourself, and her voice ringing back, proudly: "You did it!" You catch a bit of yarn on the end of your needle, then pull it through itself, think of your mother’s fingers working the same needle. She taught you how to hook, wrap, pull, and stitch together.


Your hands move quickly, and the yarn glides the way you thought it would between your fingers. It is soft, but if you pull too hard, if you think too much, it will burn; the friction will make your skin raw. It is how you imagined her voice when she found out that your father told you. It is like her laugh at the fair when you didn't want to ride the dragon roller coaster, and she dismissively pushed you towards it. Laughter is for when things are funny, but you were scared. Her laugh was soft, but it burned. She smiled, but it hurt.


She didn’t want you to know. She was in denial, like she was about you at the fair. You’re not scared. But you were. And she is.


You tug the yarn through, onto the third row and the colors have changed twice. She’s frustrated, sad, tired, and now you are frustrated, sad, tired. You feel it in your fingers. You know each of them well, and they all make you wince. You tug hard when you are mad. You loosen up the stitch when you forgive. You pull harder when you remember you are being forced to forgive.


As time passes, your blanket gets longer, covering your lap. In the summer, when you work on it, you are too hot. In the winter, you spend more hours on it, plucking through cramping hands. You continue unwrapping the bundle, because like hope, you might only need just one more pull. These things take time.


Over the months, your mother doesn’t tell you how she is doing. Says nothing about the doctor visits or test scans, only that it has spread how they said it would. But she smiles more and she laughs more and you wonder if you remembered any of it correctly. Was she the mother you thought she was?


You think about your mother’s favorite color, green, and how she Irish danced at your baby shower. You think about how you used to sit on the couch together and eat straight from the bag of Dove’s chocolates while watching movies. You remember, so vividly, her coming to your kindergarten class and playing the guitar and singing songs. You remember when you were a teenager and she told you not to swear so much because it is un-lady like. You remember telling your therapist how much you feared one day becoming like her and how you aren't yet done being angry with her. You think of all the poems you wrote about her. You think about how scared it makes you that this might happen to you one day and how guilty you feel for feeling that.



You have never made a blanket before, but every few months, you buy more yarn. Because it is something to do with your hands. Because it is something to place on an empty bed, something to fold away into a bottom drawer once the cold months have passed. Because it is something that connects you to this time in your life when you weren’t sure what you were supposed to do.


You are a mother yourself now, but right now, you feel like you are only a daughter.


Once the final knot is tied, the last of the yarn unraveled, you don’t know what it will look like. You might be angry with it. You might feel guilty for how you spent your time, how long it took you to finish it. Or it might just be a blanket, something to keep you warm in the winter, even if it leaves your chipping toenail polish out in the cold. You’re not sure what life looks like without her in it, yet.


After all, these things take time. 

October 01, 2023 03:49

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59 comments

Nina H
01:13 Oct 05, 2023

So sorry you’re going through this. ❤️ I love how you describe the skein selection. I’ve done this too, feeling not so much looking, to find the touch that felt right. So many emotions in this one. And figuring things out as you go. And remembering and misremembering and sorting it all. And in the end, you’ll have something tangible, something you’ve put your time and thoughts and energy into. And it’s ok that you’re not quite sure what to make of it. Not yet. Thank you for sharing this.

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AnneMarie Miles
02:22 Oct 05, 2023

Thanks, Nina. The remembering and misremembering was a significant point here, so I'm glad you picked that up. Sometimes when you crochet they tell you to count your stitches, but with a long project like this, and taking your time, it's easy to forget. Kinda like how our memories can get twisted around. I appreciate you taking the time to read it.

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Michał Przywara
20:38 Oct 04, 2023

Very nice, very bittersweet. Anticipatory grief indeed, coupled with memories both nice and not. I think it really captures "frustrated, sad, tired". The idea of focusing on touch here works well. It's that old line about idle hands, and the story here is to give them something to do. Because if they don't have anything to do, it all becomes overwhelming. It's hard to think about mortality on a good day, and adding to that the looming loss of a loved one is all the worse. What's the relevance of the blanket then? I don't think it's just ...

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AnneMarie Miles
22:08 Oct 04, 2023

Hey Michal, thanks for reading and the thoughtful feedback. I think you captured all of it, from the significance of the blanket and the relationship between the mother and daughter. This is a true story, so it was really therapeutic to write, and as it goes when writing about an honest experience, sometimes things come up that were unexpected. The passage you picked out happened to be one of those Ah-ha moments for me. When things are out of your control and when life is suddenly teetering towards death, there's this moment when things are...

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Michał Przywara
03:33 Oct 05, 2023

Oh yeah, all of that definitely makes sense! It's that kind of acceptance, realizing something is beyond our power to change, that frees us to focus on the important things. It simplifies, like you say. I saw the non-fiction tag, and I wondered. Sorry to hear it! It's definitely a rough situation. I think you're right though, writing can be very therapeutic. Powerful, both for reflection, and for connecting with others.

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Livana Teagan
13:40 Oct 01, 2023

“You’re not scared. But you were. And she is.“ I think we were on the same wave length this week my friend. Grief is such an ugly part of life but the way you captured it here, with the different textures, the gentle tugging of thoughts back and forth — like yarn through a needle — of what you should do and how you should do it while you wait for something that can’t be avoided. It was very beautiful. Thank you for the story.

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AnneMarie Miles
14:19 Oct 01, 2023

Thank you so much Danie. It was therapeutic to write and it was therapeutic to read your story this week as well, like seeing my own from another vantage point. It is a very strange place to be - anticipating someone's end. Thanks again. 🩷

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Audrey Knox
17:27 Oct 01, 2023

Agreed. The metaphor is so visceral and brilliant.

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Amanda Lieser
17:44 Oct 28, 2023

Hi AnneMarie! Oh my goodness, what a heart wrenching story! And I just came from your recent shortlisted one which felt so joyful! This piece was certainly in an entirely different theme but you managed to capture the same level of heart and intense love that you did in your Beowulf piece. I especially love that you decided to address the topic of anticipatory grief because I think that’s some thing that exists in the world, but isn’t always discussed. I appreciated every little detail that you did to help us understand the relationship betw...

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AnneMarie Miles
18:33 Oct 28, 2023

Thank you, Amanda for reading so much of my work. It's definitely different than Beowolf. I like to try different themes. Sad and tragic is easy for me to write most times but Beowolf was a new challenge for me. Glad all the title details landed softly. This was a very personal piece for me. Thanks for reading.

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Cliff Pratt
08:46 Oct 15, 2023

I feel that it ends a little abruptly. It might benefit from a wrap up to 'cast off the blanket' of the story, as it were. The central conflict with the mother is somewhere off there, mentioned but not really involving.

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AnneMarie Miles
15:03 Oct 15, 2023

Hi cliff, and thank you for the feedback. I really like my ending but I can see how it would come off as abrupt, and it's good to hear how readers are perceiving it. This is a poem adaptation so that is why not all of the details are wrapped up. I appreciate your time and comments, thank you!

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Barbara Becc
08:48 Oct 13, 2023

Very touching, made the grief feel real. I love the focus on touch and on memories, and how the time passes as the blanket grows, stitch by stitch.

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AnneMarie Miles
13:29 Oct 13, 2023

Thank you so much Barbara!

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Coumba Soumare
19:46 Oct 12, 2023

This is amazing Annemarie. As someone who has never experienced anything remotely close to this, you brought me into your world. Thank you for your bravery and openness.

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AnneMarie Miles
13:29 Oct 13, 2023

Thank you for reading Coumba! I appreciate your time and kind words.

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Daniel Allen
16:59 Oct 12, 2023

Lovely story. You really capture the heartache that surrounds these awful situations and the way that seemingly minor things can become so important. Some excellent descriptive language as well. Really great work.

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AnneMarie Miles
13:31 Oct 13, 2023

Thank you, Daniel! It's good to see your face here again. Looking forward to reading your new story soon!

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Alan Harrell
10:47 Oct 12, 2023

Hi AnneMarie. This is amazing in so many ways. I love the way you describe touch in the first paragraph. That's so difficult to write well. And I'm usually not a fan of second person POV, but this is very powerful. Really brings the reader into the grieving process. And by the way, I'm so sorry you're going through this now. I would normally say something cliche like "words can't describe that kind of pain," but your words described your pain very well. You're in my thoughts and prayers. Sending love!

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AnneMarie Miles
13:27 Oct 12, 2023

Thanks for reading, Alan! And for your kind words. I don't usually write second person POV, but it felt necessary for this piece. With grief, there's a sort of dissociation that can occur. Like you're watching your life from a different perspective. I'm glad it seemed to work. I appreciate you taking the time to read and leave a comment. Your thoughts and love are gratefully received.

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Frostie Whinery
16:32 Oct 11, 2023

I love how you not only managed to focus on “touch” in this story, but how the story itself was “soft. Just enough.” Anticipatory grief is a difficult thing to navigate, and that journey isn’t just brushed over. It’s the focus, and it makes this story come alive. “But you’ve never grieved a loss before it’s happened, either.“ A delicate experience that you touched on wonderfully. “You are a mother yourself now, but right now, you feel like you are only a daughter.” This line really got me. It is an incredibly raw feeling, one I’ve never be...

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AnneMarie Miles
19:44 Oct 11, 2023

Thank you so much for reading and your kind words, Frostie. Those were significant lines for me as well. 🩷

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Jonathan Page
03:53 Oct 10, 2023

Beautiful story, AnneMarie. Seems like the idea of "finality" or "closure" is in the back of the protagonist's mind throughout, with lines like: "Once the final knot is tied, the last of the yarn unraveled, you don’t know what it will look like." The idea of anger and finished things being connected as revealed in therapy is on point. We seem to tie our feelings to objects, or maybe we store them in objects. You displayed the ping-pong of anger and forgiveness and longing in tangible terms very well. I also really liked the line: "No, this y...

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AnneMarie Miles
13:10 Oct 10, 2023

Thanks for this meaningful comment and investing in this piece. It's extremely personal so it means a lot to have someone connect to it and invest thought into it. "There is nothing like death to put on display how much meaning lies in a relationship..." I think that is the main takeaway here. It certainly reshapes everything and you have to determine your priorities because there's only so much time. Thanks again for reading and the feedback!

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Marty B
17:27 Oct 09, 2023

Im sorry to hear you are going through such a difficult time. The sense of touch is great for this story because it is in the present, the here and now and not a past or future. By working with your hands, the moment in time is made real, and the 'Anticipatory grief' is put off, as well as the challenging memories hinted at by the line 'Was she the mother you thought she was?' Best wishes for you and your family.

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AnneMarie Miles
19:33 Oct 09, 2023

Thank you, Marty. For the kind words and well wishes. It's definitely a hard time, but writing it out really helps, and keeping the hands busy has been the best way to cope. Appreciate you taking the time to read and comment. Thanks again.

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Laurie Roy
15:36 Oct 09, 2023

Well done. I would've liked to know why she was mad at her mother, what was the thing that tore them apart, but I know what it is to remember someone before they're even gone.

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AnneMarie Miles
15:52 Oct 09, 2023

Thanks for reading Laurie, and for your feedback. I chose to hint at the conflict in their relationship to show the complexities and convoluted nature of having to deal with limited time to remedy the problems. But I didn't elaborate because, well, the conflict isn't what matters anymore when you're facing death. It's there, but it has to be a side. And that alone is another matter itself! When dealing with grief nothing makes any sense. It sounds like you understand and my heart goes out to you for it. Thanks again.

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M.A. Grace
05:50 Oct 08, 2023

Very touching description of your grief. Fair play to you for sharing.

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AnneMarie Miles
15:43 Oct 08, 2023

Thank you 🙏

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Hazel Ide
17:48 Oct 07, 2023

This was really beautifully written for such a difficult experience. Thank you for sharing.

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AnneMarie Miles
15:44 Oct 08, 2023

Thanks for reading, Hazel! I appreciate your time and comments.

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Rama Shaar
15:19 Oct 07, 2023

This was a very poignant read. Knitting a blanket is a great metaphor for the long, short, dragging, sudden event of anticipating a loved one's passing.

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AnneMarie Miles
15:45 Oct 08, 2023

Thank you for reading and comment, Rama. 🙏🩷

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Aaron Tippit
15:15 Oct 07, 2023

Who knew crochet could be so emotional. That reminds me of my family with bad knews. That was a wonderful and heavy story. Good work.

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AnneMarie Miles
15:46 Oct 08, 2023

Thanks for reading, Aaron. 🙏🩷

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Rebecca Miles
17:41 Oct 06, 2023

The texture of grief. I don't know what else to say dear scribbler sister, apart from you've woven this movingly into a story as beautiful as the blanket at its heart: a legacy to a loved one. Wrap it about you in the coming months and snuggle under those memories, knitted and knotted together.

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AnneMarie Miles
18:34 Oct 06, 2023

Thank you 🩷 and I owe you a bit for inspiring this one last week when you mentioned that I would love the poetic nature of these prompts. It instantly made me think of this poem Crochet I wrote last year when I learned about my mom. It was all the more therapeutic to revisit and adapt. Reminded me a bit of your story Letting Go, too.

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Michelle Oliver
05:16 Oct 06, 2023

Grief is so personal and powerful, the pre-grieving here comes through this story so well. Planning for grieving keeping occupied, using the creative process to map out the stages of your emotional journey. The tight stitches, the loose ones, each matching how you feel as that moment. I am sorry for your loss, and can see in the story the battle that goes on behind closed doors to deal with the memories, (both the real and perceived memories,) that mix together, creating an image of the loved one that you sometimes don’t even know is true. T...

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AnneMarie Miles
13:55 Oct 06, 2023

Hi Michelle thank you for all your kind words and feedback. This was a poem adaptation, as poetry is my first genre of choice and it was quite fun transforming it, even with the somber theme. It's interesting that I went for sense of touch here, honestly, as usually smell and taste are a huge triggers for memories . But as you realize, this is nonfiction and I actually am crocheting a blanket of grief! And ive found that giving my hands something to do and putting all my focus on the feel of the yarn has been very therapeutic. I'm glad the s...

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Wendy M
18:59 Oct 04, 2023

Oh my goodness, what a poignant story, so beautifully woven together. I enjoyed every line but it brought back some memories, and felt like a lived experience, so many of us have been through. Very well conveyed.

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AnneMarie Miles
21:48 Oct 04, 2023

Thank you Wendy for your kind words. This is a true story which is often harder to weave together. I appreciate you taking the time to read it.

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