Hacer Punto, Conjugation of the Verb "to knit"

She turns to me, beside her on the couch.

“Sixteen times three plus… two.

Hold up your fist, – two fists.”

She wraps a strand of yarn around them.

How big is a baby’s head?”

She is knitting a gift

Always one of a kind.

Always for someone

because she will not knit for herself.

She used to make her father

thick wool socks.

He wore them threadbare

til the wool was all felted.

Nights on the couch she looped yarn over needle

muttering

Slip two, knit one

Knit two, purl one.

Like a third generation immigrant,

I know these words uttered often in my home

but I will never speak the language

of "casting-on" and "binding off"

After the funeral,

she gave me a pair

of her father's socks.

My feet were the same size,

but it is strange to wear a sonnet

penned for someone else.

There is more than yarn

in the patterns of block and cable.

Each loop and stitch bind tight

a sliver of endearment,

a shared memory,

the heartfelt gift of time.

She has made me two sweaters,

size: big.

Each took her an eternity.

I watched love grow from a little thing to a cardigan,

from skeins she made me stretch from hand to hand

so she could pull the string and ball them tight.

She knits and purls a warm embrace into every garment

the gentle sound of kisses,

slip two

the smell of grilled cheese,

knit one

the warmth of chocolate chip cookies

sliding fresh off the spatula.

knit two, purl two.

It is remarkable how a fabric so porous

Can be so warm.

the hats they always outgrew before spring,

the socks she slipped quietly into my Christmas stocking,

the ones she'd knitted in secret all December

on poetry nights and in spare moments at work.

What I will remember most

are the mistakes,

the moments when she knew

she had dropped stitches too quickly,

that the hat would not fit.

They use the term "unraveling"

to describe the slow descent in to madness.

I watched her work for hours

slip and knit,

knit and purl

only to shake her head,

pluck the needles from their berths

and pull the lead, calm and content to start over.

Stitches dissolving in front of her by the dozen,

whole rows in seconds

order to disorder.

Then cast on again.

Each twist and loop embodying the affection,

perseverance and compassion

the knowing how much I am loved

that will leech into the skin

as many times as I wear these socks.

She does not tell me how many time she started over,

that she tried a new way to turn the heel

that didn't work like she wanted,

that she dropped an extra stitch on the left one

as though I would have even noticed.

She hopes I like them

I do not appreciate her in the way that I should.

I knit her the occasional stanza,

purl lines about our children

that nudge tears across cheekbones

but these are not epic, and too often

I read them to strangers before

sharing them quietly with her in the living room.

They will never come out the way I imagine.

I am forever dropping stitches

and can never find the right way

to turn the heel.

My stitches always bear the squeak of old doors

and smell like the basement and unfolded laundry

I don't know how she does it.

She tells me she doesn't mind the imperfections.

Later, she will politely correct me on the details.

Apparently the phrase is "purl two together"

and it can be done through front loop or back loop.

I should really have specified.

I can stare at the things she knits for hours

and never see the flaws.

To me, they all just feel like the softness of her hands.

The patterns make sense,

like there was no other way it could have been done.

In lonely moments when I am not with her,

I hold them to my face, breathe in the soft sigh of familiar.

Hot chocolate and baby powder,

Snowball fights and sunny days.

I hear her smiling in the rustle of soft yarn.

I am always home.