The Afghan

"This," my friend says, "is lovely."
Lovely is never a word
I use to describe the ugly afghan
crocheted by my grandmother
and dragged out of storage
when guests sleep on the sofa.

It is avocado green and orange,
milk chocolate brown,
and amber gold,
like the yellow my parents
painted the kitchen
of our new house.

"She picked each color herself,"
my friend explains,
as she carefully runs her fingers
up and over the zigzag pattern
with awe and affection,
though she never
met my grandmother.

It is the color palette
of my seventies family,
when Mom and Dad
were almost-happy still,
my sister played with Barbie
by the sliding glass window,
and my bangs were
appropriately feathered
away from my face.

"She thought about
you and your family
with each stitch."

I could see her then,
sitting in her green recliner,
counting stitches like
the beads on her Rosary.
"Love Boat" on the Sylvania,
drinking instant iced tea
while a cigarette smokes
from the ashtray.

It was after her husband died,
and Grandmom traveled
with her dog Coco,
bringing Shoo Fly Pie and
Moravian Sugar Cake from
Pennsylvania to our house
in Connecticut.

That Christmas,
she crocheted ponchos for us, too,
and took me to Hawaii
to see my Grandfather's name
carved in marble at the
Pearl Harbor Memorial.

The same deft hands
that crafted this blanket
raised son and daughter
independently in the fifties;
folded in prayer
for neighbors and friends;
prepared feasts
with love
for grandchildren.

"So much thought went into this,"
my friend continues,
as we carefully fold the afghan
and place it on top
of the antique hope chest
in the corner.

"Each stitch, each row,
holds love and memories."