She settled into her favorite chair. It was threadbare and had acquired that scent associated with grandparents - but she loved it. The chair had formed itself perfectly to the curve of her body, and it held her in the most comforting embrace; an ergonomic attunement achieved by years of use. On the armrest lay the blanket quilted by her mother. That too, was frayed, stretched and faded. But it had the downy feel of a favorite, well-washed T-shirt. And the family tradition continued as she settled in, sipped herbal tea, and grabbed her yarn and needles to recommence her often underappreciated labor of love. The women in her family carried on this practice of the fiber arts from generation to generation with pride and aplomb. 

 

Now it was time to bring others into the circle as her son crawled into her lap, deftly moving the needles to his own hands and completing the next stitch with an agility akin to playing cat's cradle. He proceeds to tell her about his wish list for the holidays and why he so deserves them. 

 

She smiled as both the hair and scent of her son's shampoo titillated her nose; realizing in that moment that she held two treasures along with the knitting needles - the perpetuation of her family name and the crafted skills associated with it. -- Each inexpressibly cherished.