Connections

 

I’m currently recuperating from a knee replacement (happily but painfully). I thought I might write about knees, but I’ve been so moved by the kindness of friends that I decided to share a short story I wrote about connections. Better than boring you with knee issues. Enjoy.

No School

She sat alone in the wing-back chair, a delicate rose-painted teacup perched on the table beside her, contents long cold. Staring vacantly through frosted panes at the falling snow, she lifted a half-knit sock from her lap. Magenta. Not that she needed socks—just something to keep her hands busy. A voice on the television droned about another battle in Ukraine.

She shook her head and knitted a row, another, then a third with cables, her fingers deftly maneuvering the extra needle. How many cables had she created over the years? She smiled as she remembered her mother guiding her hands through the complicated process of casting on, then drawing the yarn through each loop. First the knits, then the purls, and finally the cables. Oh, so complicated, yet satisfying to see a pattern emerge: first on a scarf, then a hat, mittens, and finally vests and sweaters. Then came the socks. Auntie Hannah had steered her through the puzzle of turning a heel, now second nature. They were both gone now. She sighed and worked her needles, a news commentator’s voice filling the void.

 

A knock startled her.

What?

A squint at her watch. Only 8:30. Who could it be?

She shuffled to the door, cracking it open to see the woman from next door bundled in a heavy woolen coat, fur hood pulled tight. Behind her stood a girl wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a scowl.

“Yes?” she said.

“Can you help me?”

“Help you?”

“This is my daughter Hazel. There’s no school today, and our day care person is ill. I have to work, and Hazel is too young to leave home alone.”

“I’m ten years old, Mom!”

“Is there any chance she could spend the day with you? I’ll pay, of course.”

 

Clearly the girl wanted no part of this, but ten really was too young to be left alone. She opened the door. “Come in out of the cold.”

“I’m so sorry to impose,” the woman apologized. “I just didn’t know what else to do, and I knew you’d be home.”

“Oh, yes, I’m home. Always home. Hazel can stay here if she wants.”

Hazel stared at her feet.

“Oh, thank you. Mrs. Sworski. I appreciate this so much. I’ll be back by five-thirty. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Goodbye, Hazel. Try to behave.”

Silence.

What to say?

“Well, then,” Mrs. Sworski said, uncertain. “Can I fix you some breakfast?”

“Nope. I already ate.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Hazel shook her head and scanned the room, taking in the vast collection of antiques. “You have a lot of old things.”

“Yes, and each has a story…”

 

~

At precisely 5:30 there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Sworski shuffled to open it with a smile. Hazel looked up, then bent to focus on her needles, which held a 15-inch navy blue scarf.

Apparently, it had been a good day.