Yarn Mother

Me? I will be your sweater. I will hold you when you shiver. I will hug you snug and soft and loose and then so tight that you will shrug me from your shoulders.

As you grow, you will stretch my arms, afraid that I may no longer fit. The strain will show in misplaced gaps, moth holes without moths, but you will not mind. Because I am yours. That's what you think. And you are right. I am yours, as I am theirs. I was made for each of you - stitch by stitch and over time. I am oddly shaped, and not quite right for anyone. And yet, I am yours.

Sometimes you will leave me behind, because the day that started out cold and needy grew warm and crowded. Later, when you come to claim me, you will not notice that I am damp, because you do not need to choose me. I am yours.

As you age, you pull me on without asking me to fit. You will love my loopy imperfections, and gaps remind you that I have a soul, and so do you. You will be surprised that I seem worn. (You will forget that you have worn me). You will worry over run-away threads you failed to notice. One errant hook, a splinter, could catch a pull and unravel me. You call these worries "pulls" without irony.

And though it's where I started, we both know I will be hard to reassemble once I am a pile of yarn.

again.