Endless loops of yarn in my small hands,
chain after
chain stitch
and Granny in the kitchen,
humming along to Conway Twitty
and rolling out sugar cookie dough.

Granny’s gone before
she can teach me to turn,
so it’s still chain stitch after
chain stitch
until I teach myself and wonder
how she counted stitches with
eyes going dark and shaky hands.

One baby blanket later,
one niece who won’t let that blanket go,
and I think I know:
the joy of creation,
the comfort in something handmade,
homemade,
the swelling in her chest
as a baby totes her work around
and knowing that there are pieces of herself in it,
knowing that there’s a piece of her in me.

I know that piece is there because
anyone who knew her can see it.
The greeter at Walmart,
the waitress at Hannah’s, where
I just want to order my pancakes—
they see her face in mine,
her eyes and easy smile.
I catch glimpses of her, too,
when I look down at my hands
holding a crochet hook.
But sometimes I’m more of a stitch
in the context of a single chain,
instead of a whole piece—
make sure you keep the tension
steady.