I see you have already left, an arrival at a much-anticipated destination. Anywhere but here, we used to say when we used to say a lot before we knew the truth, before the world exploded with too much.
I think I love stitching this yarn in my feeble arthritic hands because of the counting, not the numbers, certainly not the beautiful designs. The counting addresses my internal clock, the compulsion to check the stove, flick the light switches, say, “Bread and Butter,” when they come to part us.
I barely look at the scarf, the blanket, the slouchy black cat hat. It is onto another mystery until a glorious pattern emerges, the patterns that hold meaning in my otherwise brutally mundane life of 32 pick-up, sorting laundry, cleaning cupboards, finding salt, pounding my head against the wall, crying in the shower… that sort of thing.
Somewhere in the spiral of the past, pregnant with regret, I was a Man of Science, locked in combat with sticks and stones, godless faith in only what could be.
I am not good at Math. But the counting refocuses my efforts on one stitch at a time, calm in a storm, tempest in a teacup, Anna Nalick on the precipice of… truth.
I will tell you a secret: I am afraid to turn in.