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Some nights I dropped a needle and cried before I bent to pick it up.
Some mornings my fingers would not close until I held them under hot water.
I knitted the sailboats because Frank loved water, though he was the sort of fisherman who talked more to the lake than to the fish.
In one corner, I worked his initials into the pattern.
FM.
Small enough to miss if you were careless.
Plain enough to belong there if you were not.
When the blanket was finished, I turned it over and made the hidden pocket.
I had sewn pockets like that into coat linings for travelers who did not trust hotel safes.
The stitches had to be strong, flat, and nearly invisible.
