I’ve been planning this post, with this title since yesterday. I wanted to talk about the thrill I felt about finished a (reasonably sized) project, busting a good chunk of stash, followed by the uncomfortable, lonely feeling of having nothing to knit.

This morning I waited for a parcel of sock yarn, only to watch the mail van sweep past.

At lunchtime I got a call to say my uncle had died, and this post got very real, very quick.

I spent the afternoon antsy, a deep drive to get in the car and go to my aunt now, today. We waited instead, until we heard what she wanted, when she wanted us. I kept reaching for my needles, for the weight of yarn in my hands and the flow of stitches under my fingers.

After a few hours I cracked, headed to the craft store and spent an hour and a half getting lost in fabrics and patterns and piping cord. I didn’t bring home any yarn, which was impressive, but enough supplies for several pyjama pants.

We’re driving up the day after tomorrow, and as trivial as it sounds, I am desperate for my yarn to arrive before then. In the meantime I’ll pack. I’ll help. I’ll make pyjamas and take photos and wrap gifts.

Tonight I’ll sit with my fairy lights on, drink sleepy tea, snuggle my cat. Tomorrow is for making, being, going. Tonight is for being.



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