Crochet

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.