Dark and every shade of grey in pillows and wrinkled sheets, tumbling eastward. They feel just like my insides and I try to find their heart.
Fourteen skeins of yarn from Alice, my husband’s mother, gone now twenty years. Cleaning out yet another house and saving what stirs up memories. I’ll make them into a sweater to keep the clouds inside inside.
Knitting. I can do that.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology