When I turned back to Chesky— saw that faraway gleam in his eyes as he clomped across the warehouse mouthing numbers— I knew exactly what made this venture feel so sickening
I was perched on the top rung of my stepladder, trying to squeeze the Silver Spool bag between a storage container labeled Toddler Boy Summer and the acrylic ice bucket we’d gotten for mishloach manos from the Koenigs a bunch of years ago, when, like a dusty moth ball, the question crept out to tease me.
Will you ever knit that romper-sweater set for Shua if he’s turning eight next week?
The knitting needles jutted from the bag, poking a hole through a vacuum-sealed bag of petticoats, pointing a finger at me and stating the grim truth.
I had no idea how to knit.
I’d never ended up learning how to knit, and for seven-and-a-half years, this bag sat on the shelf, waiting for me to transform the off-white woolen yarn into an adorable baby outfit the Silver Spool lady had patterned for me.
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