Because the chocolate cake at her father’s house is made by the same person who, thirteen years ago, brought the first lasagne around, she goes home, and she wallows in melancholy.
She sits in the corner of the couch, the sound of her knitting needles and the feel of the wool for company. And she thinks of the lasagne again. She knows that time and her mind have made the lasagne much bigger than it ever was. But still, she thinks of lasagnes, curries, stews. Biscuits, cheese and fruit. And two days later the birthday cake. Vanilla sponge, iced in blue, and her brother’s name on top.
She thinks while she knits and she knits while she thinks. She is teaching herself to knit socks. She finishes the light blue stripe, the dark blue stripe, the green stripe, the red. Her mother left patterns for cardigans, jumpers, ponchos, mittens, hats. But not a single pattern for socks.
She thinks while she knits. She thinks of grief which rolls through life in waves. She thinks of all the years that have been and all of those to come. She thinks of the people she hasn’t met and the people who won’t meet her. She thinks and she knits.
She puts her knitting down, climbs into bed and wishes the sheets had been changed. And then she hopes for one of those nights. A night when spirits haunt, when dreams are real, and a mother gives strength to her child.