My mother stuck a pink crochet hook
Into a roll of green and yellow yarn.
She wrapped the tidy wool spiral in the
Soon-to-be blanket that grew from it and
Put the incomplete bundle in a tote bag.
It only needed another hour’s work.
But she died. Twenty-two weeks before
My son was born. The tote bag is brown
With red and orange flowers. It sits, beside
Other bags and her day planner, in a
Dark corner of my cold garage, the crochet
Hook entombed within a tangle of pastel spaghetti.
I cannot finish her work.