Knitting

For Christmas the year before last, Emma gave me a shoe box with a ball of yarn, knitting needles that she had whittled herself out of some sticks she had found in the yard, and a coupon that she had artfully designed on the computer to look official. The coupon could be exchanged for knitting lessons from Emma herself.

I appreciated the gift on so many levels. First, I appreciated that she had taken the time when she was really so very busy to make a gift herself. Second, I appreciated that she was pledging more time that she didn’t have to try to teach me something. And, third, I appreciated that she had confidence that I could learn to knit, a confidence that I thought might be misplaced. Emma was always good at whatever she tried and was particularly good with her hands. Me – not so much. I’ve just never had the patience, focus or creative vision for crafts. But here she was telling me that she was confident that I, too, could learn how to knit.

Well, though the box sat right beside my bed for the next year, I never did cash in that coupon and have Emma teach me how to knit. So when she died much too early, it was a nagging regret. She had wanted me to learn and I didn’t find the time to do it. I promised myself and Emma that I would learn now. And I hoped that knitting might give me a sense of connection and comfort while I was desperately missing my little girl.

My sister-in-law offered to teach me and after a couple of lessons, I found that with a lot concentration, I could knit. I tried to move on to purling, but it turns out, that was overly optimistic. Nevertheless, I think Emma would be proud of me. I imagine her gazing at the pathetic square of stitches that has taken me way too long to create and I can hear her saying, as only someone who really loved you could, “See Mom, I told you that you could do it!”