In February I finally pick up where I left off and plop onto the sofa for a breather. With needles in hand I dive into the project with my bifocals in position when Nonna appears by my side.
“Wot you got dere den?”
“Knitting.”
“Knitting, knitting, knitting. Always you are with the knitting. I tink you are a tricoteuse.”
I refuse to rise to the bait, smile but make no comment; partly because I see the hearing aide is adrift and partly because I’ve not knitted a thing in months.
“Wot it is dis funny ting? A bag?”
“A scarf,” I bellow. About all I have time for these days. “It was supposed to be a Christmas present but I didn’t quite get around to it.”
“Good—dat way you are ready for next year. Wot color is dat den?”
“Green, her favorite.”
“It is an orrible green. Like something dat as gone bad. It’s a funny ting isn’t it,” she says patting the knobbly yarn. “I tink maybe it is like gangrenous intestines.”
.............. I'm sure it will catch on.
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