I still remember the day
you crocheted your heart.
White yarn,
soft, fluffy,
bought at a dollar store,
two hooks
and my clumsy insistence
on wanting to learn.
Sitting on the bed,
you explained the knots to me,
the twists around the hook.
My hands—obtuse—
refused to understand.
My slow eyes
lost count
of the turns,
the loops,
of everything.
You, on the other hand,
in an instant,
crocheted your heart.
I could barely manage
two or three knots,
unravelled,
confused,
a shapeless line.
You took the scissors.
You cut the yarn.
And so your heart was born.
I looked at it, absorbed:
how a humble yarn,
under your control,
became gathered,
deliberate,
formed.
You gave it to me with affection.
You never explained to me
how to make mine.
I put your heart
on my desk,
as one might
keep relief.
I still remember its smell.
Last night I saw it again.
My dog was carrying it in his mouth.
Perhaps he could still,
in that thread,
smell your words
from that day.
It fell into my hands:
stained,
worn,
but still soft.
Still yarn.