I’ve been knitting on this shawl since the beginning of the year. Slowly, slowly. A row or so a night, or sometime I’ll go weeks without even looking at it. Maybe I’m not speeding through it because I’ve knit this pattern before, a long time ago. Another life, even! But I already know how it turns out, so there’s no hurry to get there. Just enjoying the glint of ruby silk and the sharp needled click-clicking whispered chatter of the stitches as they are drawn up and through and along their journey. I could do this forever. I almost don’t even care what it looks like when it’s finished (except I do, just a little.)
It’s deep, deep summertime. My blood hums along with the drone of the cicadas, thrums with the promise of thunder on the horizon. I want to prick my fingertip with these wickedly sharp needles. To see if what drips out sings. Or roars. Or is instead a still and soundless blood bloom born .
(I got new knitting needles. They’re moving me in unexpected ways.)