I was trying to crochet a poncho for a friend of mine. I had to frog it because the stitches became _way_ too tight. I guess my tension level was up. It went from being about 23 inches long to about _17_. That is not a good thing.
Sadly, I turned to making something to put in my nephew's casket. He was my first nephew, the first baby I made a toy for that I was related to, the first grandchild, the whole bit. I had made him a lion and a baby afghan. (I also made him, much later, a circus train afghan, one you could take the animals out of the cages and play with them.) I made another lion, bright yellow with a white mane and a white tail. I embroidered the goofy smiley face I use for all my stuffed toys. Than I put it to the side. I was hoping by not looking at it anymore that I wouldn't realize the loss that was sustained.
But it became real for me tonight when I placed the lion in the casket. I remembered the little baby boy he was and just broke down. It felt so horribly wrong to be there, to be placing the lion there. I kept saying to my sisters "This is _wrong_, we shouldn't be doing this".
But it would be _wrong_ not to have done that for him. There's nothing more I can physically do for him, it's the only way I know how to show my love, and for that, I guess I am kind of lucky I crochet.