I don't know why these are called afghans but that's what we always called them. My mom made these in the late 60's, you can tell by the colors. They clash with everything else in my house but my kids won't let me put them up. They've been a part of my decor for over 30 years, everywhere I've lived. Mired in a deep depression over the deaths of a sister, a mother, and a nephew in a short period of time she needed something to do with her hands besides wipe tears. Her eyes were focused somewhere we couldn't see. All three of my kids run cold and they have spent hundreds of hours lounging under one of these. A couple are so heavy it takes both arms to carry them, those are for winter. Sometimes when I pick one up after they have left I see a hair curled and poking out of the stitching and I pull it out and try to figure out whose it is. I usually can. If I hold them to my face I can smell them. Each one of them. I have a lot of things around my house like this, relics from the past. While I live in the now I've been formed by my yesterdays.

I wonder if all those years ago her eyes were seeing some future where the grandkids and great grand kids she would never see would nestle under her handiwork and maybe feel the touch she would be unable to give them any other way.