I’ve spent a lot of time in bed over the last three weeks. I was downed by a Dreaded Lurgy that left me snot-filled and coughing, coughing, coughing. I’ll spare you the sputum tales and get to my point.
On my bed is a colourful crocheted blanket that I have had forever. The one up there, in the photo. I had a lot of time to contemplate it while I was being sickly.
There are actually two of them. My sister’s, and mine. Mine is 40, like me, and my sister’s is 44, like her. We have had them since we were born. My granny, Yvonne, crocheted them for us. My Dad’s mom, who lived in Harare, and who we adored. We didn’t get to see her enough.
Those beautiful, bright, crocheted pieces, perfectly put together, are woven with love. The blankets have moved with us, from small childhood beds to boarding school to messy varsity beds in different towns to our respective adult homes, and then back to the little beds in my house used by the Delicious Nephews when they visit, granny’s great grandsons. She’d have adored them and they, her.
As we grew longer and filled more space in the world, the blankets came along for the ride, a constant comforting reminder of being loved. Our homes changed, our lives changed, we laughed, we sobbed (often on the blankets), our stories weaving themselves into the spaces between the wool.
Amongst those still bright colours, in those spaces between, the ones that let the light through if you use the blanket to make a blanket fort, those gaps are filled with dried tears, contented sighs, whispers and secrets, gorgeous giggles…
Sometimes it’s just good to spend some time contemplating Granny-made crochet blankets threaded through with love and life.