Other things are just knit with honest goodwill, like a simple cotton hat for a new baby. Sure, I wish everyone the best, but it's not exactly love. The child will wear it for a maybe a few months, maybe, and grow out of it. Hopefully, the parents will save it away, but I don't know. It filled up the time one evening when I was watching TV, and it made them happy for a little while.
Still others, upon thorough self-examination, are knit simply to try a beautiful new yarn or to make more room in the stash. The only love knit into them is the love of knitting itself. This could be anything, the angora sweater I made selfishly, the acrylic I desperately wanted out of my stash. Kept or given away, it didn't really matter. I just needed to knit and enable more knitting.
No, if I'm really honest, very few things are knit with true love, the kind of unswaying devotion that a move across the country or a bitter fight or even death cannot affect. What then, does this mean for the items knit with the piercing, aching memories of a former love? And how can so many thoughts and emotions be caught up in 150 meters of yarn?
I bought it here, I was with someone there. I could probably only afford one skein, was it enough? It didn't matter, it was on sale, and it had to be mine. Now every detail of the little lump of fiber haunts me. The soft grey conjures up memories of half-timbered houses and cobblestone streets. The fiber content, 100% cashmere, evokes different moments, different touches. It sat in my stash for so long, first because it was too precious, and then because it was too dear. It looked wrong, even next to the other cashmere I was hoarding, and I began to realize I could truly never do anything with it for myself, but I couldn't give it to just anyone.
There are many kinds of love. One may flare up quickly, and then burn out. Another, though created by the first, may be more subtle but much more enduring. This little grey cashmere scarf may be my last chance to express it. It is knit with love.