Knitting is relaxing, almost meditative in its rhythm. The knitter sits comfortably in a big cozy chair, feet up on an ottoman, while a warm crackling fire fills the fireplace. The scent of burning wood and the billows of smoke receding from the room now that the flue is open.
Tonight the knitter finishes the front of the garment she has silently wrestled with and cursed. As she cuts the yarn, she sighs as though a heavy weight is lifted from her chest. She takes the cut yarn and threads it through the final stitch to finish off the piece. She knows she should linger over the completed section, but the logs in the fireplace have crashed and shifted, expelling a good-sized ember onto the non-fireproof rug where it immediately smoulders.
Once back in the big cozy chair, feet up on the ottoman, she proceeds to untangle the completed piece from the wildly unwound ball of yarn and remove the wooden knitting needle sticking through the middle of the work. She checks for a hole where the needle has stabbed the garment, and to her sweet, sweet, relief finds none. The fire crackles and pops, but now it is enclosed behind glass doors so she doesn’t have to closely monitor it. She puts aside the finished front, fishes through the loose ream of papers that is the pattern, somehow finds the one she wants, and sits comfortably back in the big cozy chair to read about the sleeves.
As she reads, her legs stretched before her on the ottoman slowly retract to a knee up position as her posture steadily leans forward until she is hunched over and chewing anxiously on the end of her knitting needle. The sleeves, it seems, are puffed. She scans the knitting directions for the sleeves again hoping that she is wrong. Alas, she is right: puffed sleeves. Slowly she places the pattern directions aside and uncoils herself so she is once again sitting back in the chair with her legs stretched out before her with the fire now mysteriously smoking behind its glass door front.
In a brief moment of insanity she envisions stabbing her needles through the heart of the pattern. She can’t quite believe she has gone through all this figuring, ripping, knitting and reknitting, smoothing, cajoling, and struggling with the Back and Front of the garment to come to puffed sleeves.
She stares into the fireplace where pitiful, long, thin wisps of smoke curl upwards from an all but dead fire. She looks at the Back and the finished Front of the sweater, the wooden needles, the ream of papers, the wool. Alas wool doesn’t burn, but everything else does. She feels herself standing on the pinnacle of something. Then she turns to her lap top and Goggles “knitted puffed sleeves”. Once again she has pulled herself back from the brink.
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