Her name was Rose and I knew her as Grandma Rose. She died when I was about 3 and I remember her open casket funeral and the many bouquets of flowers that surrounded it. I don’t have any other memories of her.

As I got older, I realized I couldn’t account for her on the family tree. “She was my neighbor growing up,” my mom had said. Her and her late husband were so close to my grandparents that she was considered family. What an honor.

That’s everything I know about Grandma Rose.

Oh, and one other thing: she crocheted beautifully intricate blankets.

My maternal grandma was the proud recipient of several of these pieces, and since her death over a decade ago, they now grace the couch in my sitting room. The thick yellow one, complete with tassels, is one of my prized possessions. Every winter I curl up under its warmth. And with this cloudy season of the soul I find myself under, it has been a source of comfort as well.

Over the holidays I too was gifted with the fine art of crocheting, as my sister in law showed me the basics. Now on my third project, I am finally making something that doesn’t look like an intoxicated spider weaved it. I have years of practice ahead of me to be on par with Grandma Rose, but I’d like to think I’m on my way there.

Rose probably never thought that 30 some odd years after her death, one of her creations would bring such warmth to a woman who was a baby last she saw her. Her legacy lives on, woven together on a single thread of yarn.

I want that. My bloodline dies with me and there’s no options to alleviate that. And so, while DNA is not meant to be my medium, I believe yarn will be. It will stand through the test of time, but like all things of this world, it will wear out and cease to be. But long after I meet the Lord, I will leave something behind to comfort, warm, and decorate.

And if I’m truly lucky, a child will ask, “Who was Grandma Simonne?”