When we were lucky enough to purchase an old cabin, inside were many treasures left by the original owners. One of which is an old crocheted blanket, made with many patches crocheted with many different wools. So many colours in all different states of knitting abilities. I have no doubt, all made by different hands, younger and old, then sewn together. You would never call it pretty or perfect, anything but. It was full of holes and coming apart at its very unskilled seams.
I have taken to repairing it. As I sew it together each patch tells me a story of the little hands and well worn hands that created it. They may be long gone but their essence is still present in this tattered old blanket.
Someone blanket stitched all around the edge pulling it all together. It talked to me. It told me the story of a family. All different, all colourful, some strong, and some holy. With its fragile edge holding it to common strength to create warmth, a gift of pure love.
Thank you to the creators and may their family live on.
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