I discovered crochet during the under-employed summer of 2011. It engaged my mind in such a way, I was unable to obsess about work (or lack thereof). I am still amazed that linking a series of knots will create beautiful shapes and patterns. Yes, that is my intention, but I'm constantly mystified that it works.

My paternal grandmother was a knitter. I have sweaters and afghans that bear her label "Made Especially for You by Sylvia." She would call me and say, "You're up next for a sweater. What colors do you want?" She carried her knitting projects with her and her needles were forever clicking. My grandfather helped her with the patterns and graphs, reading row information in a jumble of words I did not then understand but assocatied with home and family.

She passed away before I heeded the call of the hook and yarn. There is a twinge of memory, sad but also honoring her devotion to the craft, every time I learn a new stitch; when I browse new skeins of yarn, touching and testing for the right softness; ticking off a row on my color grid, the "6 blue, 23 pale blue, 14 green" an echo of Poppy's voice.

When I research a new project, I often wish I could call her. When something unexpectedly works and a project comes together and actually resembles my intention, I wish I could call her. I want to ask her how often she deciced to improvise mid-way through a pattern. I want to discuss her gage and her approach to seams. I feel her with me when the yarn passes through my fingers but I regret the missed opportunity for connection. I have a theory that maybe, in her passing, her knitting energy needed a new home and found a yarn-based spark waiting to be kindled in me. When I sew on my own "Made Especially for You" labels, I honor her craft and hope the recipient can feel the same level of love and care woven into each stitch.