She felt raggedy, unraveled. She looked it, too. But once she started working she couldn’t stop; wouldn’t stop. Didn’t matter if she couldn’t finish in just one sitting she wanted to get as far as she could. Maybe it was her obsessive, excessively competitive nature that made her count the rows of stitches? Or perhaps she just liked to see the thing materialize, soft between her fingers.
Too much coffee and a restless leg made her stop around three thirty. She rubbed her neck and then her eyes as she looked at the pieces. Knitting is creation — there’s a reason it’s used to describe healing for broken bones — making something new exist in an open, fractured place.
So she knits all night to fill up the broken, empty place. Thinking about the sweater, socks, blanket, hat takes up the loose yarn and energy she would spend on thinking and crying. Mourning is for the daytime and knitting is for the night.