Lammswolle
(Jan 06/06)
I am, she says, trying to pull it all together, but the wool, she says, gets all tangled, sometimes it breaks, other times it just sits there staring at me. Wool’s like that, he says, always breaking or staring at you. Wool, I guess, does just that, busting and tangling and staring. I hate it, she says, wool. In skeins or balls or mittens, or scarves and socks, especially socks, she says, socks, I hate socks, wool socks, especially. I, he says, especially hate the way they’re double-knit, at the heels and around the toes, especially around the toes, the heels, too, but especially the toes. She says, my grandmother knit socks, wool socks, with double heels and toes, heels, especially, but the toes too, always the same double-knit heels and toes. She died, knitting, she says, her fingers arthritic and bone-weary. Like twigs or child’s fingers, she says, from knitting in front of the television or while listening to the radio. She drank black tea, he says, blacker than molasses. She died, he says, from cancer, in her throat, from Craven A’s and black tea and the cancer in her throat. The milk, she said, made the tea too weak, too weak and not worth the bother. My dad, he says, tried to convince her to give it up, but she liked her black tea and Craven A, he said. I don’t remember, he says, but she stayed almost four months in the dining room, in a hospital bed, he said, with hydraulics and handrails. A nurse came, but she still refused to give up her black tea and Craven A’s, he said. My dad had to hide in the garage, he says, or out back behind the house, he said, so she couldn’t see him smoking. I would steal her Craven A’s, he says, when she was unconscious or her breathing was real shallow. I don’t remember any of this, but it happened, he said, just the same. My dad knew she was going to die, he said, but I either never heard him or forgot that I had, he says. I guess its better that way, he says, not knowing or pretending not to know if you had heard. My grandmother died, she says, from heart failure, or congestion, something like that. I was away at school, so I never got back, for the funeral, she says, they had it without me. I went to the cemetery once, she says, but it was too cold and the ground was frozen. I couldn’t see the plaque in front of her grave, under the snow, frozen. I, he says, don’t remember much, from my childhood, he says. Not even having a bicycle, he says, not even that. I’ll knit you some socks, she says, with double heels and toes, if that’s what you like, she says. I’ll make some tea, he says, and put on a record for us to listen to, something old, he says, from then. You’ll pull it together, he says, just be patient, it’ll come, he says, just don’t stop, it’ll come, I just know it.
I am, she says, trying to pull it all together, but the wool, she says, gets all tangled, sometimes it breaks, other times it just sits there staring at me. Wool’s like that, he says, always breaking or staring at you. Wool, I guess, does just that, busting and tangling and staring. I hate it, she says, wool. In skeins or balls or mittens, or scarves and socks, especially socks, she says, socks, I hate socks, wool socks, especially. I, he says, especially hate the way they’re double-knit, at the heels and around the toes, especially around the toes, the heels, too, but especially the toes. She says, my grandmother knit socks, wool socks, with double heels and toes, heels, especially, but the toes too, always the same double-knit heels and toes. She died, knitting, she says, her fingers arthritic and bone-weary. Like twigs or child’s fingers, she says, from knitting in front of the television or while listening to the radio. She drank black tea, he says, blacker than molasses. She died, he says, from cancer, in her throat, from Craven A’s and black tea and the cancer in her throat. The milk, she said, made the tea too weak, too weak and not worth the bother. My dad, he says, tried to convince her to give it up, but she liked her black tea and Craven A, he said. I don’t remember, he says, but she stayed almost four months in the dining room, in a hospital bed, he said, with hydraulics and handrails. A nurse came, but she still refused to give up her black tea and Craven A’s, he said. My dad had to hide in the garage, he says, or out back behind the house, he said, so she couldn’t see him smoking. I would steal her Craven A’s, he says, when she was unconscious or her breathing was real shallow. I don’t remember any of this, but it happened, he said, just the same. My dad knew she was going to die, he said, but I either never heard him or forgot that I had, he says. I guess its better that way, he says, not knowing or pretending not to know if you had heard. My grandmother died, she says, from heart failure, or congestion, something like that. I was away at school, so I never got back, for the funeral, she says, they had it without me. I went to the cemetery once, she says, but it was too cold and the ground was frozen. I couldn’t see the plaque in front of her grave, under the snow, frozen. I, he says, don’t remember much, from my childhood, he says. Not even having a bicycle, he says, not even that. I’ll knit you some socks, she says, with double heels and toes, if that’s what you like, she says. I’ll make some tea, he says, and put on a record for us to listen to, something old, he says, from then. You’ll pull it together, he says, just be patient, it’ll come, he says, just don’t stop, it’ll come, I just know it.
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