Many thanks to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers.
Please click on the above link to join in the party. The subject photograph appears at the end of this post.
The yarn I stashed because it was beautiful.
The yarn I knit with, purls, knits, becoming braids, a yarnover.
The indie dyes that captured my heart: greens; purples with teal and forest.
“Enough yarn now, isn’t it? Are you a hoarder?”
I send off a package for charity; hats and mittens for needy.
“Not more yarn?”
The shawl with fake cables, open-work, brilliant blues, like a peacock, for his mother. “For me?”
He slaps the needles from my hands. “I know what you’re doing.”
Stitches slip from needles. He has no clue.
Miles away, cashmere, a death, casting-on.