Through the day, and through the night… She knitted, relentlessly. Thread over, thread under, she joined her memories, rolling them patiently around the long pointy needles. Watching the warm colors of her loves complementing the cold feeling of her blues, and the blackness of her lonely days. She followed no partern, needed no instruction… Her knitting was unequal, and imperfect, but it was hers, and hers only.

She had knitted her whole life… Clumsily first, and then forging her style on others, thinking it was the way to fit in. She now knitted as it pleased her, unevenly and with strands the colors of her own moods, not caring what others thought.

“Too bright! That blue is too bright!” Some would say, but she knitted his eyes in anyway…  “Too dark! That grey is too dark!” She couldn’t care less. She would blend all the waves of her oceans and all the clouds in her skies in the soft wool.

Sometimes she wished other hands guided her her fingers…

But she knew, had she let someone hold her shaky palms, she would have softened, and stopped knitting altogether, to enjoy the moment. She had gotten entangled once or twice, in another colorful canevas… But it never lasted, and she couldn’t stand scissor cuts.

Knitting was a serious business. Knitting her life one stitch at a time…