The granny square afghan has holes in it. The yarn does not cover every space. There are gaps in the pattern.
Perhaps the granny square afghan was crocheted by a girl in middle school, cerca 1990. Thirty-some years ago. Perhaps this was the first crochet project she ever completed. Perhaps she was a total amateur at crochet. Perhaps, as a result of the amateurish job, the holes in the granny square afghan are considerably bigger than they would’ve been, if crocheted by someone more accomplished at the art.
Perhaps, as a result of the passage of years, more and bigger holes have emerged. Perhaps the girl who crocheted it, who is now a woman, is too lazy, or perhaps too nostalgic, to fix the holes, and the loose and unraveling bits of yarn continue to grow and multiply.
But perhaps she loves the blanket. It’s part of her. It connects her to her grandmother, who taught her how to crochet, her granny who loved crochet, and still does. And perhaps the blanket isn’t a straight-up granny square blanket, but a hodgepodge mix of all different types of squares, some followed patterns, and some made up by the girl. And perhaps it has all sorts of random colors, was made from any old scrap of yarn at hand, without regard to any overall vision. And perhaps this makes it even more imperfect: that is, more perfect in its imperfection.
And the girl, who is now a woman, often wakes up cold, in the middle of the night. And she reaches out, all sleepy-headed, and grabs the bundled-up blanket, and throws it down to her feet, so it completely covers the place where her body will try to resume sleeping.
And she thinks, “How can this afghan possibly keep me warm? There are so many holes in this thing! Many of the holes are bigger than a square centimeter! Some are even bigger than that! Will this old, imperfect thing really work to keep me warm? Or will the cold air seep in? Will the imperfectness of this thing keep me awake?”
But, inevitably, at that point, the woman drops off to sleep, cozy and warm.