I recently indulged in a twisted six-month relationship that fed my soul and kept me warm. The 24-square-foot blue afghan for my older son is finally done. After having hauled it on vacation, long car rides, a writer’s conference, weekly music lessons, and all over my house wherever there was a chair by a window, I have a bereft feeling in the wake of the last stitch. It is a knitted testament to patience, love, and the need for busy fingers while watching television so I don’t eat chips. God, I love chips.
What’s next? Another afghan. This one presents a new challenge for me: crocheting. My mother makes it look easy. I learned to knit and crochet (among many other things) from her. My mother is left-handed, and I never realized I knitted and crocheted like a left-handed person until one day when my mother-in-law was watching me work. “I didn’t know you were left-handed,” she said. For the record, I’m not. But it sure does open up an interesting conversation about the way we learn to do things.
So, tonight I plan to settle in on a cold October evening and listen to the television while I make the first left-handed chain stitches of a green afghan for my younger son. Given the cold gray skies today, he asked me if I could hurry. Only 432 granny squares until the finish line.