There's a lovely little wool shop in the next town over. It's in a tall old clapboard-sided house with peeling paint and wavy-glass windows. The bell that hangs from the doorknob rings as you walk in.
Yarn is everywhere.
There are bins upon bins upon bins of it. Good thing the boys are throwing the football around in the gravel parking lot out back, because it takes you a while to touch every skein you see. You find just the color you're looking for, plus several skeins more from the 50% off bin on the floor. Good colors. Autumn colors. The lady behind the counter offers to swift all this goodness for you, but you don't have time, and besides, you do have that singing skein holder, after all.
A crochet hook, a pattern for Queen Anne's Lace, snippets of time where ever they're found, and a scarf (or two) soon trails down into your lap. The pattern repeat settles into your memory, and your hands are soon doing it on their own. This stitch + that stitch + that stitch + this stitch = the same beautiful motif, every time. So predictable. So relaxing.
A Sunday afternoon on the couch under an afghan, with yarn in your hands, and you wonder about its finished length now, so you wind it around your neck, but it's kind of hard tell. Knowing that you can't possibly leave your warm nest to go look in the mirror, you take a picture of yourself with your phone that's close by. It's looking lovely, you decide. Just as pretty as you thought it would be.
But it's not quite done.
All the better, because either way, you're good.
P.S. Thanks for the love, dear ones!
