The memory of my mother sitting in her easy chair

crocheting comes to mind. She worked the hook

deftly in and out, weaving the thread through loops,

in, out, and around with spider like precision.

This was her gift, her reasurring habit that

gave her comfort and purpose. A table cloth

for her daughter, an afghan for her other daughter,

shawls and baby blankets, caps and ponchoes.

All done with love and determination.

All unique, but lacking absolute perfection.

She showed her daughters and grand children how

to form a stitch, a row of stitches, a pattern.

When they became busy working, there was no

time for crafts and their attendant patience.

My mother continued diligently.

By the time she passed on at 93 years of age,

each of her twelve grandchildren had an afghan

or some other colorful crocheted item to

remember her by, to touch and remember.

She had no money to leave for her two daughters,

but she left them a treasury of crochet.

She had carefully chosen each color

of thread, each design, for her loved ones.

She and her flying fingers had crafted goods

stitch by stitch, loop by loop, over many patient years.

No gold or silver will ever outshine her chrochet.

Patricia A. Hare 9/5/2011