This is my mother’s handiwork. She crocheted a lot when I was a kid, always this same pattern. She didn’t even have to look; her hands just went on auto pilot, working the needle, working the needle back and forth like a machine while she watched the afternoon movie. She made doilies and dresser scarves, tablecloths and bedspreads. At least, she’d say it was going to be a bedspread or a tablecloth. I don’t recall seeing one on a bed or table.
This piece had been in my linen closet forever. I don’t know if it was meant for bed or table. I wouldn’t have it on either. It looked unfinished, too small for bed or table and lacking a border. The only time I’d ever used it for anything was when I pinned it over the patio for a bit of shade on a hot day. That’s when I took this picture. After that day it went back into storage.
I kept the piece because I respect handiwork. I kept it out of a sense of obligation. It was the only thing I had, made by my mother, but I felt no fondness for it. In fact, it annoyed me every time I saw it, taking up precious storage space. Why do I keep something I have no use for, made by someone I couldn’t stand?
I chucked it one day during a cleaning spree. I didn’t want to be bothered with shuffling it around anymore. I took the thing to the garbage can, I dropped it in and I dusted myself off. It felt good. It felt cleansing. And I kind of wished she could have seen me do it.