“I just can’t do it–I just can’t drive over your knitting!” a woman called to me from her grey station wagon.
“People do it all the time. It’s part of the project,” I say.
“Knitting a stream to the Bay,” I say.
“I still can’t do it. I’m going to drive down a different street instead.”
“Bless your heart,” I say.
A mom stops with her two young daughters, the one with the tiny pink glasses in a hedgehog T-shirt, the other, a floral print.
“Did you want to show the lady something?” the mom prompts the daughter who looks about 5 years old.
“Stitches,” she says lifting her chin to reveal a bristling line of black threads.
“Ow, how did you get those?” I say.
“I fell flat on my face,” she says.
“Did you trip over something?”
“No I fell off a swing.”
“Look at her knitting needles,” the mom says. “They look a lot like the needles the doctor used to stitch your chin, only they’re much bigger.”
Yesterday, I pushed my bike up the street as a fierce wind buffeted my body. “You’re bicycling into a strong headwind,” a man told me as I went by.
C. came and perched on the far end of the bench beside my crumpled raincoat as I wound a skein of ocean yarn into a ball, wondering if this is the last skein of the project.. She called out to Sunglasses, “You look naked without your hat!”
I started knitting as the grey clouds multiplied overhead, then started dumping rain. In a few minutes, the rain had passed.
I’m knitting faster, my fingers moving themselves now, and every cell in my body strains for the sea.