Regifting

There was an unfortunate situation. Explains the nurse under the unforgiving lights of the OB’s office, days before our son is due. It’s for a boy. She is holding a homemade crocheted blanket, thick and generous, an assiduous weave. Serious tones of blue, gray, and black sharpen its pattern, revealing a geometry intricate and infinite. The work of weeks warming by a hearth or nestled in a rocker, perhaps. Nimbly maneuvering the hook, fingers dancing the familiar choreography countless times: insert, yarn over, yarn over, pull. Adding a slip stitch here and a back loop there. Absorbed by the quiet urgency of the task: the hope of a grandson, the promise of a nephew, the dream of a son. A labor of love for a beloved after labor. Would you like it? We pause to process the weight of the words—the unfortunate situation was, the blanket is. Then nod, folding softness into our arms.