For me, this is a piece of art. My blind Mother knit this. Since her blindness settled in for good, she has not been able to complete a single knitting project. It's been five or six years now. She took up knitting again 10 months ago but she has not successfully knitted more than three rows. Her fingers would feel some small hole or mistake and she would rip it all out and re cast to begin over. She could not sit and speak with you without picking up her needles and a few minutes later unraveling what she had done. It was as if her own thoughts were unraveling. Her days were unwinding. Her life was becoming a big knot. Knitting symbolized her current life.
I have been taking care of my mother for almost a month marching steadily towards decline, ill health, and all kinds of trials and tribulations that make her blindness in comparison seem a small and trite thing. I have been pushing her to finish more than three rows and it was with great ceremony that last night we cast off this knitting. This piece has much symbolism for me. Sure, there are holes. At places, it is inside out. It grows. It has many flaws. Isn't this true of us all? I know it is of me. But this is knit by my mother and so am I, knit together with her hands and all her hopes.
After I took a photo of this and told her I was about to share it with my scattered brothers in Asia, she lifted her head away from my voice and asked, "Do you have any thicker yarn in brighter colors?"
We cast a new piece tonight.