A Small Post Christmas Miracle

He watched his grandma 
create this wonderful thing 
stitch by stitch, just for him, 
in her remaining free time.

He was mesmerized by the looping and 
pulling, the unraveling skeins melding
into this beautiful blanket of many colors.

By November it had started 
showing flashes of his favorite 
hues: blue, green, yellow— black 
stitching separating into squares.

He imagined its strength and comfort
 over his body, snuggling tightly his feet—
a perfect Christmas present with the hint 
of warm embrace and good dreams to come.

In the last week between November’s end 
and December’s start, his grandmother’s 
heart stopped knitting and her needles 
and yarns were solemnly, forever put away.

Weeks later, underneath the tree, there 
was a large box wrapped in eloquent and 
expensive paper and topped with a 
graceful red and green ribboned bow.
 
Holding his breath,  he carefully unwrapped it.
Inside was a blanket- a big box store bought one,
with the scent of antiseptic that would take  days
to air out and unfold into something remotely homey.

His heart sank  He couldn’t believe his parents 
paid money for such a hollow and smelling,
three dimensional image of his best dreams;
a mean, poor, lusterless imitation of life

After the presents were put away,
the meal was eaten, dishes washed,
he noticed a sprawling mess, in his
favorite colors, hidden in the shadows.

The dog had treated it like a favorite sock. 
Its corners were chewed and torn, but its 
patterns  and hues were unmistakable.

The blanket was unraveling at the end,
the stitching was loose, not tight.
He knew that his mother had tried to finish
what his grandmother started but could not.  

A beginners book on crocheting was the clue 
he needed to patch  this mystery all together. 
He did not need the book to know what to do next.

He sat down on the old sofa, amidst all the throws
his grandmother had knitted, and spread out the 
blanket on his lap, and finished her dream of him.