I Knit my Days
I knit my days.
today I am under the weather a bit, not feeling tip top.
My ribbing, which should march 2 x 2 like big strong soldiers, is wobbly.
Here is a mistake, 8 rows back.
Another day, I would have ripped it back—not really ripped, but pulled the stitches off the needle.
But not today.
This knitting is a record of my day, like the wampum that Indians used when the country was still theirs, when it wasn’t even a country yet.
Wampum, I’ve been told, is history. Or maybe I am mixing it up with some other beaded things they made, those Indians before Europeans ruined their villages.
No matter; no one is putting my knitting into any museum.
Today’s messy ribbing is my history.
Not conquest, not discovery, not brave men doing deeds of derring-do, but one person’s small life, knitted into a hat.
Me and my errors, made evident for all to see.
I used to be better, a better knitter, maybe a better person.
But on a low-energy day, what used to be seems like another person’s life.
Like Indians before Europeans.
Something for a museum, or a history lesson, or to spark indignation at how badly people treat other people.
But no one is treating me badly. I am just not at my best, as my best used to be.