She must have done all those crocheted cloths with those. Bridget watched all the worn, handmade crochet hooks. The old lady was dead, no children. It was her job to take care of the leftovers. She had known the lady, vaguely. They met once every other month, since it was her job. She had been treated with coffee and cookies. And crocheted table cloths. Bridget had close to twenty of them back home; gifts from the old lady who must have had few others to share her passion with.
Bridget did not care for crocheted table cloths. As a matter of fact she got angry when she felt that someone spent time on something so useless. This, of course, she kept to herself in the old lady's presence. She was there in business and had no intention to harm the elderly woman's feelings. And so she had walked home with yet another of those table cloths after every meeting.
When she saw those hooks, carved out of tree branches she stared amazed. Why didn't she buy hooks? Why had she carved them herself? She took one in her hand. Wood always felt good against her skin, she admitted that, but the hook wasn't even straight. She imagined herself sitting in solitary in the apartment day in and day out, what would she do? She sure wouldn't produce crocheted table cloths.
When Bridget got home she brought out the gifts from the old lady. Now she could safely get rid of them. She unfolded one of them and took a deep breath: it was a big flower. She had never seen that. Because she never bothered to look, that was the ugly truth. She unfolded another one and saw a family with playing children. Now she leaned closer. She didn't know much about crochet, but she had an idea that this pattern was one of a kind, and a difficult one demanding someone experienced. The third almost made her faint, because it was her own portrait.