June 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
It’s not lasted so long this time, she is thinking. Barely a year before his bony wrists were well clear of the sleeves again. Barely a year since she last sat here unravelling this jumper back into its ball of wool.
He’d been with her when she bought the wool from that little shop on the high street, twelve balls of it, scratchy and hardwearing but she promised him it’d soften up. A good serviceable navy blue. That first jumper, four years ago, well he was only a scrap of a thing then, wasn’t he? Barely seven balls worth. She’s been adding in here and there, and now there’s only one ball left, expectant in the cellophane.
That’s the thing with knitting. You make a mistake, all you have to do is unravel it. Grown out of it? Unravel it and knit a bit more in. They say wool has the best memory of all the fibres, that no matter how much you pull it or stretch it, it’ll always spring back to shape, come up good as new.
As she rips at the rows and all the neat stitches collapse into the pile of yarn at her feet, she wonders how it would be if she could unravel her awkward teenager and reknit him as her bright young boy, running out into the autumn day, proud as punch in his brand new jumper.