Knitting

It's the quietest I am,
knitting.
I'm not counting.
I'm in a quiet world of memory,
imagining the rapid stitches of my grandmother,
how she could sew beads and sequins
into the rows of her work.
I'm thinking of my mother,
her needles tapping and clacking,
her pinky bent to hold the yarn,
knitting, watching TV, talking or reading,
not looking at her work.

I'm remembering the small cream jacket I'd made for my daughter
before she was born
and my grandmother's perfume passing through the room as I knit.

I'm remembering the box I'd opened at school
with the sweater my mother'd copied from a picture in a magazine
with a pink satin ribbon woven through.

I'm remembering sitting at the lake
at my grandmother's feet
with my arms outstretched,
a skein of yarn draped over each of my hands,
her rolling it into a ball.

Dull trips to Fall River to look at yarn.
Poring over knitting magazines
because my grandmother promised me a sweater of my choice.
The flowered afghan.
The Fair Isle pullover she said she'd never ever do again.
The Norwegian maroon sweater with white hearts I must have worn every day
for every winter
for all of high school.

I used to fall asleep at night
naming the gifts I've received
in my life
that were knitted for me,
that I've knitted for others.
I am soothed by knitting
and the thought of
so much yarn,
so much color and softness and texture,
quietly woven into love
as they did for me,
as I do now.