“You need to loop the yarn over the hook and then make another loop… then pull through.”  Her hands were like birds, threatening to fly off as she worked the crochet hook in her hands.  Loop, pick up the stitch, loop, pull through.Time.

My clumsy ten year old fingers couldn’t quite manage as gracefully.  I kept dropping loops and the stitches would just melt away.

“You need to catch the loop, Miss Kerri.”  She showed me again.  Loop, pick up the stitch, loop, pull through.

My wrists were like sandbags.  I couldn’t make then arch the way hers did.

“Kerri, the loop.”

“Grammie, I can’t.”

“Can’t?  Yes you can.  I can, damnit, and I’m fifty years older than you.”     The yarn spun from the end of the skein, sending the navy blue cotton spooling across the floor.  Loop, pick up the stitch, loop, pull through.

I stuck my tongue out and concentrated really hard.  Her crochet work always came out so beautifully.  I wanted to learn.

Grammie waited patiently while my ten year old self tried to catch up.

Later this week, the doctors will biopsy the tumor on her kidney and see if it is the cancer we are fearing.

She’s the only one I have left.  The last five years have already stolen my Grandpa, my Bumpa, and my Nana.  She makes the best sugar-free apple pies.  She does handstands in the mud at family picnics.  She’s the last one.  And the one I fear losing the most.

Loop, pick up the stitch, loop.

Pull through.

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