Tuesday, December 1, 2015
She was as old as a worn curtain in a parlor. Mam sat daily and knitted scarves for people; a Striped Scarf for Claude whose bakery burnt down, a Cable Knit Scarf for Susan who lost her child last year, an Alpaca Scarf for John who often took a drink. a Chevron Scarf for Nicci who traded in her poems for a corporate gig in New York. When the wind would stir and the snow smiled; if rain became ice or people fell down they would often wrap mams scarves tighter and begin to glide forward. Her work was renewing just warm scarves for cold hopeful people.