In this region, schools will start tomorrow. Everywhere, there are large white banners up reminding drivers that children are about, on foot or on their bike. For various reasons, I don’t have good memories of my time at primary school. When I think about knitting, or see someone knitting, my stomach contracts. But, don’t you love the bike?
Did you knit this yourself?
It would have been a morning.
Glasses, graying hair in a bun,
typical spinster teacher.
Why ask a question to which you
already know the answer?
Because you had never been able
or willing to show me left-handed knitting.
The few centimetres my mother
had added during the week stood out:
too smooth and regular, too clean,
easily done in her click-clack rhythm.
I watched you unpick it, leaving
me sitting with a pile of curly wool.