Everything's easier after the first row.
August 3rd, 2013, 11am
It was 17.2°C with few clouds. The breeze was light.
The needles click. The wool runs through the fingers on my right hand. The ball of yarn tugs against my side like an insistent child pulling at its mother’s skirts.
The hypnotic rhythm of each stitch, each row — my hands weave a pattern unbidden like my mother’s before mine and my grandmother’s before hers.
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