Or What I Really Do When You Think I’m Knitting
After Gustave Caillebotte’s Mademoiselle Boissière Knitting
I think of so many doors that were once closed and opened, of all the doors I wish to re-open. My breath espouses the clicking of needles, I count three for a hole, skip a thread for a gap, loops form ephemeral ripples, a wish gone sour, a sunken coin.
At times, I’ll erase an entire row, move patterns backwards, relive the moment I crawled into the warmth of my parents’ bed. In my grey Shetland shawl, you know, the one wrapped around my shoulders, lie all the emotions, designs, I could ever recreate.
With each lace-hole, sorrow melts a ruffled feather, a caress my fingertips long for, or did you think my back was always bent, hands knotted? Rows of holes form a river that wanders without leaving its bed, a bed of Queen Anne’s Lace spreads over the eyes of my skin wounded by the scent of wildflowers.
Memories morph into delicate shapes conjured up as I purse my lips in concentration: my heart bursts in my chest like a ripe pomegranate under noon’s sun. Under my tongue a hummingbird flutters at the twitch of each stitch, each stitch, a scar. I play Solitaire with yarn and needle, shuffle and reshuffle at will.