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.
Inside I placed the bonds.
Inside I also placed Frank’s letter.
He had dictated it from the hospital bed in short pieces, stopping often to gather strength.
It was not grand.
Frank was not grand.
It told the child where they came from.
