The stained glass coverlet,
Crocheted from remnant yarns,
Was untouched by his apartment fire.

I remember when she
Created this masterpiece,
My son’s grandmother, my husband’s mom.

The parallelogram
Patterns, four-sided squares,
Some fat, some lean, different colors;

His name ran down the middle,
“K E I T H.”
Exquisite in charm and of beauty.

She crocheted so fast
In days of our past.

On a recent visit
To Tennessee, I found
The salvaged piece of art she had made.

It made days of old appear
When he was young and near.

Youth has been swallowed up
Matured him-on his own.
And now life begins a new cycle.

His childhood afghan
Unveiled to me these truths.
I couldn’t put it away while there.

I remembered how I miss those days.
I’ll hold him as a toddler in my heart always.