Isn’t it lovely? My guy is 60, just like me.
Yarn
I knit socks and misshapen sweaters,
hats of all colors and sizes, leg warmers,
ponchos, scarves (thick and skinny),
vests invented from scraps, head bands,
fingerless gloves, mittens, weird bags,
afghans for babies and adults, booties,
squares intended for larger works that
languish for years in plastic baskets,
cowls, and (soon?) stuffed cats.
I imagine myself crafting
a big sofa pillow that reads, in
raised letters, LET THAT SHIT GO,
then sending it through the mail to
my PhD chasing daughter, who
(truth be told) I imagine as
a younger and wiser and
cooler version of myself.
I knit and unravel and reknit.
I wear and discard, wear and
forget, gift, abandon, and donate
mountains of hours of fingerwork
and yarn, budget yarn and middle
class yarn and cottage industry
handpainted ridiculously expensive
boutique yarn and yarn I inherited
from my favorite grandmother
long lost to the next life.
I can crochet as well, but the denser
fabric leaves me (finally) unsatisfied, and
even though it takes half the time
to finish a project with a hook,
I prefer the needles' tedium.
There's a story here, in this pile of
knots, a message, a metaphor for
the way I am in the world that's so
painful I'll leave it in the skein.
