The needles flashed in the sun – click click click. The old woman was knitting a sweater, a very small sweater it seemed. Click click click. She deployed the motions with precision and vigour. Click click click. The man noted the red wool coming out of the shiny white plastic bag to her right. He desperately wanted to look into the bag to see how much of the red wool was left. A tear escapes his eye as an eyelash stabs him. He squints to see. Was the wool almost gone? Was there enough left? Would there be enough to tighten around her neck eight times and tangle the life out of her? Click click click. 

As she counted the loops the pain resonated in the back of her head. Knit makes you fit, knit makes you fit. One day her brain might heal. One day before she was gone and not too late she hopes. The clicking soothes her suffering by the mere fact of it being there constant, playful and within her control. Three more times to the wool shop and there would be enough for the rest of the doll’s wardrobe. She couldn’t wait to see the expression on the child’s face. 

In a fog of brilliance she visualizes the scene as she wishes it to happen. The pond will be in the background, they will perch on the hill leading up to it, and while gazing into his eyes she will tell him. She will tell him that together the family they have dreamed of making for so long is less than a year away from become a reality. The sun will shine on them both in blessing and they might burst spontaneously with the sheer joy of it. The flowers blooming by the path they are on sway in a gentle breeze as if caressed by a lover’s familiar touch. She squeezes his hand and hopes his tears will soon be from pure elation. 

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