Somehow, suddenly, my sweater is done. It’s cast off. Totally not touching and needles anymore, a separate entity. The next step then, for any adult sweater looking to live separate from it’s parent needles, is to take it’s first bath. To be baptized into garment-hood.
As I submerged my
baby sweater into my mixing bowl, the largest container I have, filled with water painstakingly siphoned from the water fountain (as a country bumpkin I didn’t want to use stock city water to block it) I gave it a gentle push and hoped it would swim, rather than sink.
I left it to swim and loosen up all the cramped, stiff stitches that had been jammed together on the circular needles as I mercilessly decreased for the yoke.
I heaved it out of the bath and held it aloft to drip out as much
excess water as possible. Then, I stretched it therapeutically loosening the last taut stitches. I pinned it to my towels and the end of my bed (again, all that I had to work with).
I stood back to admire my work. Ten months of blood sweat and tears (January eighth to September thirtieth). The stitches were standing at attention in their rows, everyone where it belonged. The room smelled strongly of wet sheep. I was proud.
Then, I realized, I had pinned my still-the-far side-of-soaked garment to my sleep spot. So, I did what any knitter would do. I borrowed an extra blanket so as not to uproot the pins and curled up at the head. I actually slept very well.