photo #8974125

There was something magical about those little metal looms.Bright rubbery loops stretched between tiny pegs, fingers clumsy at first, then confident.We sat at kitchen tables, on living room floors, sometimes on the front porch, weaving color after color with absolute focus.No screens.No notifications.Just patience, repetition, and the quiet pride of making something.Every finished potholder wasn’t perfect.Edges crooked. Colors mismatched.But none of that mattered, because the moment it came off the loom, it had a purpose.It was always for Mom.She smiled like you’d handed her a treasure.Hung it right there with the others.And somehow, every mom ended up with twenty of them, each one holding a memory of small hands and big effort.Those potholders weren’t just fabric.They were time.They were love.They were proof that we once learned how to slow down and create something real.