personally, at least not yet. But I understood instinctively that when your heart is too full and your thoughts too tangled to say all the things you really feel, knitting something that will let someone you love feel warm, cherished, and foremost in your thoughts says what words sometimes can’t.
And for people who aren’t always good at being in the moment or sitting with their own thoughts, knitting is an anchor, a gentle, centering weight. That was what I needed more than anything just then, stillness. An anchor.
I closed the door to the yarn cave, settled myself into Beebee’s comfortable old pink chair, and picked up where I’d left off nearly three weeks before. The evening was blessedly cool and I had the windows open to the breeze. As I looped the yarn over my fingers and worked my needles, adding five inches of lemon-colored yarn to Peaches’s puzzle blanket, I kept my mind purposely and safely empty.
But I heard the thrum of cicadas, the barking of dogs, footsteps and snippets of conversations from people walking past, laughter and music that floated from Caroline’s window to mine as she and Heath practiced a rumba, and I started to hum, adding my small contribution to the larger song of the night, a song called belonging.
I grafted another color into the blanket, robin’s-egg blue, feeling calm, safe, and thoughtful. I thought about my mother and father, about Beebee and Calpurnia, about Teddy and me, and all those who’d come before, the people who shared my blood and had lived inside these walls. I thought about Pris, Felicia, Caroline, Happy, and Polly and all the things she’d said. She was right. They were part of it too, this place of belonging, this family I had longed for, this dream fulfilled.
And as I finished knitting the blue and brought in the sapphire yarn, the final color, I thought about the baby and Becca. I let the tears flow one final time for dreams lost, and let them subside and be replaced by love and prayers, good wishes and future hopes, growing my heart row by row, binding off bitterness stitch by stitch until the work was done and only a single stitch was left on the needle.
The work was done.
I brushed my fingers across the blanket, enjoying its softness, admiring the uniformity of the stitching and the way the colors came together, each separate hue making all the others so much more beautiful. I thought about that last remaining stitch and how the whole thing had begun with exactly that, just one simple stitch.
I thought about beginnings and endings, and the number of times I’d begun the work, only to fumble the row or drop a stitch, and been forced to unravel the work and begin again. And with a suddenness that surprised me, I thought about Trey.
A door slammed downstairs. Teddy and Polly were back. I heard voices, the padding of paws, footsteps on the stairs. Teddy stuck his head into the room.
“We picked up some pizza for dinner—pepperoni and buffalo chicken. You want some?”
“Sounds good. I’ll be down in a few minutes. I’m almost finished here.”
Teddy smiled and pointed to the blanket draped across my lap. “Hey! That turned out good, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think so too.”
Teddy went downstairs. I cut the yarn and wove in the ends, placed the blanket inside a big box that was already filled with the baby shower presents I no longer needed, and found a pen and paper.
Dear Becca and Ella,
Anne sent word that you’d found an apartment and she passed on your new address. I thought the baby clothes and equipment might come in handy. Well . . . maybe not so much the USC onesie, but a baby needs something to spit up on, right?
You’ve been on my mind lately. I’ve been wondering how things are going. Becca, are you getting any sleep? Ella, are you trying your best to let her? (By the way, Becca, you did great picking out a name. The right name is important. She looks exactly like an Ella.)
Along with the clothes, toys, supplies, and the blanket I knit myself, I’m sending so much love and so much hope that you’re well and happy, and always will be. I know you’ve got this, Becca. But if you ever need anything, I hope you know that you can call on me. As I’ve recently been reminded, whether you’re born into it or make it yourself, everybody needs family.
Everything