El Bandito laughs at my collection of hand-knit sweaters, most of which I don't get to wear regularly in this mild but damp and windy climate. Laughs, because I still want more.
And there are comfy slipper socks, a hat or two to warm my head. Scarves.
And then, there are the afghans.
I've had mine since sometime in college. I don't know when I got it, exactly.
Only that I've carried it from place to place.
The one in the photo is technically El Bandito's, and if I remember correctly, it was given to him while he was still officially the "sin-in-law" (my mother's affectionate term for both of her sons-in-law prior to wedding ceremonies). But it's the one wrapped around my feet at the moment, and thus the appropriate one for a post about gratitude for the afghan. Also, the one within reach of my camera phone without making me get up.
They're not exotic yarns. Some acrylic blend that can be tossed in the washer and dryer. They've stretched; my afghan is a complex polygon with somewhat abstractly curved sides rather than a precise square at this point.
At various points, they've been hijacked by cats; our "little starter" cat would sleep on an afghan whenever it was in her sight -- she'd start to purr just seeing it. In her last days, either afghan was often gently puddled on the floor for her to nestle in.
They've been tossed on the beds over the comforter on cool nights. Wrapped around feet or over laps when we're sitting with computers or books or watching movies snuggled on the couch.
And everytime I grab one, or toss it over my feet, or ball it up to throw it in the laundry, I think of my mother, her skill and her love. I'd be grateful enough for all that an afghan is, even without the sentiment. But with it? Precious indeed.