In Her Hands

My grandma Joyce could crochet

anything.

Blankets. Doilies.

Possibly shelter in a mild emergency.

She never announced it.

She just sat there,

hands moving,

making something useful.

At a family reunion,

she made purses for all her granddaughters.

We each chose one.

Some went for the prettiest.

I chose light lime green,

not because it stood out,

but because it felt like her house.

I did not have the language for that then.

I just knew it mattered.

Now there’s you,

working yarn through your fingers,

calm, focused,

creating order out of string

like it’s no big deal.

Different hands.

Same steadiness.

Same patience.

Different century.

I see the thread between you—

how love in our family

moves quietly,

hiding in practical things,

unexpected colors,

and hands that know how to make something

where there was nothing before.

I’m your aunt,

which means I notice things like this,

brag about them later,

and assume you will be amazing

without always remembering

to say it to your face.

The older I get,

the more I understand

that the lime-green purse

was never really about the color.

It was about carrying

a piece of someone I loved.

And now, I,

when I watch you crochet,

I see that same love

being carried forward.

The yarn remembers.

And so do I.

Also, if the world ends,

I’m sitting near you.

Because you are more than the one

who inherited the skill.

You are the next pair of hands

making something beautiful

for the rest of us to carry.

One of four tributes to the people who made me an aunt.