Unfinished

On grief, creativity, and the beauty of leaving things unfinished

Jan 05, 2026

I found the blanket in pieces—crocheted squares, threaded but unconnected. They were stuffed in a plastic box among yarn, receipts, and long-lost birthday cards. One box of many—filled with a life scattered and collected and now—delivered at my doorstep.

She was 48 when she left this universe. She left suddenly and tragically. Alone. And I knew it instantly as I rode in the backseat to the hospital. Something about the sunset that day felt lonely, lost in a sky too large to hold it. Its colors stretched above me like tear stains, fading hues marking its goodbye. It felt like an angel had fled from Earth.

My aunt was fourteen years older than me, and we grew up together, like sisters. From as young as I can remember, she was there, encouraging my creative flair and dreams.

If I wanted to present a play, she’d be my announcer. Introducing the great and talented… and I hid behind the chair. Four years old and realizing suddenly the idea of acting out Annie for my family might not be a good one. People would look at me. She found me there. You can do it, she said. Now go shine.

Her whistle was always the loudest.

I’d watch her draw for hours. She could draw anything. She’d take out her sketchbook and charcoal pencils and make characters I’d only dreamt about come to life. Clowns, talking rabbits, aliens from outer space. Draw me grown up, I’d beg. And she did. Every charcoaled line of my future nose and long, thick hair.

She was magic. Not just at making my dreams real on the page but real in the present. Propped up on the bathroom counter, she’d take out her collection of makeup and turn me into a pop star. Purple and blue eyeshadow swept smooth across my lids. Don’t blink, she’d say as the black mascara came out. The scent of Aqua Net made us both sneeze, my hair teased and stiff. She wouldn’t let me look in the mirror until she was done—and then—the grand reveal. My twelve-year-old reflection disappeared into the pop star dream. I was—Madonna.

And that is why, when I saw the crocheted squares—unfinished—I cried.

She was always creating. Paintings. Flower arrangements. Drawings. She sewed pillows and stuffed rabbits, and Christmas ornaments. She once needlepointed an entire Christmas village that sat under our tree. I’d lay on my belly and stare at the scene under the twinkling lights. Somehow, a hand mirror sprayed with fake snow became a frozen pond that tiny plastic figures skated on. A stack of books under white fluffy cotton became the hill for the grandest needlepoint house—a green and white mansion. I want to live there someday, I’d say.

I found her adoption papers when I was fifteen. I still remember sorting through the desk drawer, the closets, and under the bed. I knew there was a secret. I found them under sweaters in the bottom drawer of her bureau. The last place I looked.

I suppose it’s part of why I write mysteries.

I’ve been searching for the truth for a long time.

She was 48 when she died. I’ll be 48 next year. And sometimes, I can’t help but count how many years I might have left with those I love. How many moments? How many dreams realized? As if I could know. As if anyone could.

This past Christmas, things were hectic and busy, and it was hard to feel the holiday spirit.

There was a present under the tree, wrapped in tissue, inside a large bag marked with a Christmas tree. It was addressed to me from my children.

And as I started to open it—figuring it was books or lotions, or maybe a new sweater—I found something else.

It was my aunt’s blanket. The crocheted squares were no longer separate. No longer scattered or unconnected. They were perfectly connected, threaded at every corner. The way I imagine she’d dreamt it, when she crocheted each square on some cold day a long time ago.

How—I tried to say as I burst into tears. My children smiled. They told me how they had gathered the squares and brought it to someone who had carefully threaded each one together. And I am forever changed by it.

I realize now that it’s okay to leave things unfinished. What you create—who you are—is a process. We do the best we can. Say what we can. Are who we hope to be. Always evolving. Always reaching. Perhaps being unfinished is the most beautiful part.

Because there is something more to art—and life—that embeds itself into us, connecting us, thread by thread, line by line. But at the end of the day, all that matters is the love you pass on.

Because love is never unfinished.

Till Next Time,

Sarah Crowne

A Busy Lady

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