About three weeks ago, I decided to crochet a throw for my mother. Those who know me understand the ironies imbedded in that statement.

“Can you even crochet?” or “Can you crochet well?” or even “Will your mom even notice?” are all commonly thought but thankfully unexpressed questions.

The answer to them is a little, probably not and no.

My mother has Alzheimer’s and frankly, is at a stage where she sits in her own world, rarely communicating with the rest of us. She doesn’t recognize me, and would be hard pressed to pick me out of a lineup with Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus or Rudolph.

What that means is that giving her a Christmas present is particularly challenging. What do you give a woman who doesn’t need or want anything, and won’t remember the gift five minutes after getting it? Hmmmm.

The hand lotion/pampering body products has been done. Clothes are more a necessity than a gift. Knick knacks tend to clutter the limited nursing home area, and while it’s possible her subconscious will register her surroundings, I wanted to do something different for a gift.

Thus the crocheted throw. Something warm, tactile and colorful. Perhaps as she sits in her wide-awake dreamland, her hand will rest on the throw and she’ll enjoy the softness of the yarn. Maybe a chill that she feels but can’t articulate will be lessened by the thickness of the throw.

Or just maybe making this throw is more for me than it is for Mom. Just as a child offers a parent a homemade handprint and poem, I’m giving my mother my hopeful best, knowing that the imperfections in the gift—the uneven edges and dropped stitches-- don’t matter to her now. And never did.