About 15 years ago or so I was determined to learn how to read patterns. I only knew a few basic stitches and how to make granny squares (isn't that what everyone learns first). My dad worked outside taking care of 7 cemeteries and plowing snow in the winter. I remember him coming home from work chilled to the bone. I found a pattern using an afghan hook that made tight close together stitches, and is very heavy. I did it in colors of blue to match his eyes. He only used it a few times when he was super cold. He told my mom it was the warmest blanket he ever had but it was too nice to use.
In 2002 my dad past away unexpectedly, and a few months later my mom asked me if I wanted the afghan back. I told her no at the time because I couldn't imagine having it in the house as a reminder of what we had lost. She let it go and didn't ask for a long time, then about a year ago she asked again and I finally brought it home. I folded it up and stuck it in the closet out of sight for a long while, then recently while cleaning out the closet I dug it out and threw it in the washer. I folded it and hung it on the back of a chair in my bedroom and recently transitioned it to the bed. A few years ago I was diagnosed with a severe blood clot that almost ended my life and last year was re-diagnosed with round 2. I now have to take blood thinners for the rest of my life and the winter months take it's toll because i'm cold all the time. Daddy's afghan has now found a permanent spot on my side of the bed and does a good job of keeping me warm. What once hurt to look at has become one of my more cherished possessions because of the story behind it and the fact that my dad was proud of that afghan. Now when I look at it I think of the happy memories and not the fact that he is no longer with us.