This throw was knit, square by square, by my best friend A. and her girlfriend. It’s wool, it’s warm, it’s wonderful. And every time I lie down beneath it, I feel loved.
My grandmother crocheted this throw for me when I graduated from high school. She asked me my favorite colors, and threw it together while I was visiting her for a week.
Not that cooking or writing aren’t accomplishments, but sometimes they feel impermanent, intangible. The food satisfies for a moment, but the hunger returns. The words are said, but can be forgotten in the inrush of other words. But a blanket is warm, and present, and permanent.