My bedroom is conveniently located two steps from the bathroom, which allows me the luxury of snatching a few minutes of rest in the evening while Rowan sloshes in the tub. I flop onto the bed, pull up Nana’s crocheted afghan, close my eyes and listen to my son humming as he soaps. I could be tidying the boys’ rooms or stuffing clean laundry into drawers, and some nights I do exactly that. But most nights I try to sneak in a bit of quiet.
The afghan used to have a tag in one corner, hand-stitched, that read, “Made especially for Michelle by Nana,” but it’s long-since torn off and lost. Still, all the elements of comfort remain – the scratchy yarn under my chin, the gaudy rainbow blocks, the memory of Nana, a love that never unravels.