I remember wool. In fact, as colder days approach, I am reminded of wool more and more. Soon enough I’ll be reaching for the jumper she knitted me a couple of years ago, and the beanie she crocheted for me a month before she died. Her love will continue to warm me, even in her absence.
I remember wool. Winters were wool. I remember how eager Suse was to get her crocheting basket out each year. As soon as the first cold day hit – at the first hint of winter – it would re-emerge, and projects which had lay dormant over summer would be briskly raised from their slumber.
Equipped with cup of tea and crochet hook, she’d enthusiastically settle into the couch and go to work. Creating, crafting, researching new patterns on YouTube, concentrating with her tongue poking out (that was her thinking pose). How I loved watching her. It made me so happy.
I remember wool. Occasionally she’d make something for herself. Usually it was for others. She’d rotate her projects through each member of our family. She was intent on covering each of us with her warmth.
I remember wool. The way she worked with it; they way she knitted herself into each piece; the way she wove love and compassion into every new stitch. It only occurs to me now, but that’s how she operated in all aspects of her life, with everyone she met. Through hooks and yarns, connecting, weaving and warming. That was you, my dear, that was you. How spoiled I was by your warmth.
