This is my first Poetry Thursday post (on Wednesday, what can you do?). I hope you like it!
Time passes. It’s ever constant.
Birthdays pass, couples wed, buildings fall and careers end.
“My life is slipping through my fingers,” they say.
My wool passes through my fingers.
I knit for birthdays, housewarmings and those who are ill.
My fingers remind me of the value of my time as I spend it knitting for others and knitting for myself.
The most constant reminder of time is when it’s stolen.
When someone dies.
In the case of my grandmother’s recent death, knitting has been my solace.
I knit to remember.
I knit to mourn.
I knit to commemorate.
I knit in a connection to time.
To it’s presence on me.
To reclaim the ownership of “me” time.
To pass it.
To relish in it.
To know it.
Time is knitting for me. Both slip through my fingers. And both are the fabric of my life.
Note: My grandmother died on Mother’s Day of 2006. I knit these socks (yarn dyed by me) to commemorate her and the hours I spent at her cottage during the summers of my youth running, swimming, boating and being loved. What a great woman she was.