I am a few weeks shy of 34 years old, and one of my favorite items is a worn blanket with frayed edges.
My grandma was the crafty type. She could sew and cook better than anyone I have ever known. When we visited, chocolate chip cookies were always stacked high, ready for us to devour. And the beds were made with lovely, cozy quilts that Grandma pieced together by hand. I still have a few of them. Two are in perfect condition, used only when we have surplus guests and need extra bedding. But one is a bit faded, a bit tattered, and a whole lot of loved. It traveled from my grandparents' home, to Tennessee, to college, and to my first grown-up apartment. I packed it for the hospital when I was about to meet my sweet baby Amelia. It now resides in my house, still adored, even though time has transformed me into a working, writing, playing mama.
I am convinced this blanket releases a magical poof of comfort. The fabric is crisply cool on the surface, but just heavy enough to keep away the chill in the air. I could cuddle up on the couch with this one every day. In fact, when I have time, that is exactly what I do! Even in the summer. Some of the fabric has thinned to the point of holes. The edges are pulling apart. The colors are but pastel hues of their former brightness. But this one blanket, only this one, holds on to my heart. There is not another one like it in the world.
Grandma is not with us anymore, but I bet she is happy that I am still enjoying her handiwork. I think that's why it is so cozy; it was truly created with love between each hand stitch.
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