My Grandmas Did It Shamelessly

My grandmas did it shamelessly in
public; on the bus, in trains, on the
sidewalk – even when we were out
driving to the shops. It got to me
eventually, I began to see it as
something necessary for life, not
the outrage it would have
been in any other existence.

My mother did it and all my aunts,
and if they didn’t do it openly
I imagined they did it in the discrete
comfort of their long-lived relationships,
in the small-ways and the hallways
and in the closets and the cloisters
of their dwellings.

My cousins did it frequently, without
guilt or hinted embarrassment, and a
girl I once admired did it in the stand
at Rugby Park while we watched a
stirring rugby match. I remember that
only too well, I was asked when
the happy event was happening.

Yeah, I knew you’d ask - what the Hell
were they doing? You can’t wait, used
up your imagination. They were knitting;
knit one, purl one, knit two together,
pull the wool through, start all over.
Knitting the fabric of life, teasing the
yarn into yards of scarves, socks, and
jerseys to be worn by the unwitting, the
unwilling, the comprehensively loved.
© I.D. Carswell 2006