My hands are my mother’s, my own, my knitting, loving, useful hands. They keep me sane, express my imagination, type these words, accept my benign neglect. If I were ever going to get a tattoo, it would be a tiny one to honor the creating my hands have done — a spiral or a spider, at the base of my left thumb (not happening any time soon, though).
H is for…hope. As in I hope this reincarnated clapotis works. I got all the way to the decrease section, and I didn’t like it. Too wide, too short, not right. I found the outside end of the ball of yarn, cast on from there, and worked until it met the first attempt. I hated that one (too narrow) so I ripped it out and started again. Will it work? I know, I know, it’s the process. I like the process. But. How long before I tire of this? How long before I balk at the deadline I’ve created? My sister’s birthday is in just over three weeks. Three busy weeks. There’s always hope.
This is my birthday week, and I like to think, when I look at this beautiful, smiling woman who will be my mother, that she’s hoping she’ll have a child who’ll turn out to be just like me!