The Mitered Mystery

Did I hear somebody or another mention mitered squares?

With all this talk about mitered squares in the blogosphere, I can’t help but share



crocheted mitered pieces I found in my Mom’s stash.

My mother was a genius with the needles and the crochet hook. Sweaters, hats, mittens, socks, blankets, pot holders—her hands were always busy.

Mom’s Aran knit sweaters were sought-after raffle prizes at her Church’s bazaar. Brides and moms-to-be were showered with exquisite blankets. My brother’s feet stayed toasty in hand-knit argyle socks. My Dad wore knitted vests for years. Everyday I use the crocheted potholders my Mom would dash off in a night or two.

But what was the story behind the bag of mitered pieces? Was my Mom playing around with the technique? Did she intend to finish the blanket? Or did she grow tired of it? Did she put the pieces aside planning to return to them? Or did she forget?

My Mom had Alzheimers. And one of the things this cruel disease robbed my mother of was her ability to knit and crochet. She couldn’t make sense of patterns. Her fingers didn’t remember how to form the stitches. Something that was pure joy for her became a hateful frustration.

I look at these mitered pieces and wonder if I should finish what my mother started. Should I make them whole?



Or should I take them as they are—



a mystery. Pieces that would never be whole again.