I softly fold it, setting it aside,
A moment more to tag (To…From…),
A crocheted throw, (another one?) indeed,
But this was for the young man he’s become.

No more the baby blues of soft layettes,
No more the booties, hats and mitten sets,
No more the teddy bears so neatly pressed
on play-togs, made for finding birdies’ nests.

This time I chose the colors of his team,
This time he’ll toss it, near his new earplugs,
On tip-toes now, to see his eyes agleam,
His arms atop my shoulders, as he hugs.

I’ll never cease the knitting and crochet,
I make these gifts to grace his “Aidan’s Place”,
So, baby books of patterns stowed away,
While folios of afghans take their place.

Wistful, toddler years have flown away,
My love for him grows stronger with each day,
This tall, young man has deftly taught me how
to be a grandma, with his winning ways.

This sonnet-like poem commemorates my #1 grandson’s 15th birthday. I’d spent most of the weekend (and trip to DC) finishing this afghan: a simple pattern, nested from the center and working outward, each round adding to the one before, as the square grows larger and larger –  like my love for my grandson grows day by day, year by year; building on the year before and increasing with each repeat.  Finally, I finished the never-ending edge, just in time to present it to him. He loved it, just as he loves his  Patriots, even when they don’t win, unconditionally!

Photo Friday #pattern

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