(Megan says I freak her out, but I don’t care. As long as I’m keeping her alive and housed, I’ll look at her any way I want to.) Megan has grown up into a lot of things that I am not. Tall, for starters. Long limbed for another. Where I am short and compact, Megan is lean, long, and at this age learning to negotiate with all of these inches that turned up so fast. She’s all angles as she folds herself up into an armchair with her bright red yarn on her lap and a set of double-pointed needles in her hand. When Megan knits, it looks like digging. Her left needle lies over her palm, fingers below and thumb on top, the needle held between her thumb and pointer finger as though it were a tiny and effective shovel. Her right hand completes the picture of industry, this hand position almost mirroring the other, her thumbs pointed toward each other, as though she were ready to toss a miniscule salad rather than start a pair of mittens. When she begins to knit her left hand remains largely still, simply holding the needle and stitches as they wait to be knit.
What do You think about Free-Range Knitter (2010)?
