It’s how many years later and i still haven’t finished the sweater I was knitting when my mom died. It has a particularly difficult stitch that took me quite a while to get - I bet I don’t remember. I haven’t tried. I also need another ball of particular yarn - I won’t be surprised if it’s not available anymore. Oh I’ve had little dips in where quickly, in a cocooned trance, I knit a dishcloth or a hat for a gift. I’ve knit to felt some gifts. But it’s like putting on protective gear and going into the ICU. I just get in and get out. Don’t notice. Don’t let myself be present to the movement of the needles. Don’t let myself be present to the hands. My hands. Which look exactly like her hands. And the familiar movement of the yarn going over the needle, the sound of the needles. I picked up knitting through osmosis really - so my movements are almost exactly like my mother’s. And I still can’t face it. Perhaps I need to truly surrender and let whatever locked and keyed and hidden grief is still there to flow and show itself. Perhaps I need to knit for her. Perhaps I need to finish the sweater.