A new hobby would be the best thing. Creating warm and comforting things after her warm and comforting thing died whilst it was being warm and comforted inside of her. Knitting, I suppose, she thought. Knitting, just because her baby is gone does not mean that there aren’t plenty of other babies in need of warmth and comfort. The house was so big, so empty. A room, a new room was built to serve no one and she would ensure that it never will. The other creature left, leaving a draught in its wake that spread to half of her bed room. The most movement the kitchen saw were the shadows gliding over every surface as the stars and clouds danced with each other, serving a reminder of how stunted our perceptions are. They are not dancing, and they do not know each other. They are millions of years apart, falling together in line for our entertainment.
Are we then omnipotent? Do we see all we are meant to see but are simply cursed with this stunted perception? We know nothing but we see all, don’t we?
Her footsteps around the house left small and apologetic prints in the dusty snow. The whole house was full of this oppressive snow. The whole house would be full of life again because she is the giver of life. The draught doesn’t contribute to the life that could have been. It didn’t to begin with, because that life was not.
She wanted to knit a sweater out of her intestines, and fashion the cross stitching with her veins. She would package them neatly in her womb, and that would be her gift. A gift for whom? How would she do it? Sadness occurred, for her mind could only burst forth with ideas. She had no sterilisers to dissect herself and make this gift. The thought counts.
A cupboard stood in the corner of her grandfather’s room. There was a blizzard inside, enticing her with the promise of suffocation. There, at the bottom, she saw it. Her stomach drooped over her cave as she bent, her tendons working furiously to support her weak frame. She bent, allowing gravity to take her, but not too far.
You’re meant to bend your knees and lift with your back to prevent injuries at your own risk.
In her grandfather’s room in her house by the coast, all he left was this bed space. His green bedroom. He wanted to complement the shifting colours that were given by the ocean but only created an insulting clash that caused injury to the external setting. Maybe to someone prudish, but she liked the green. She liked how it separated them from the outside. There was no deception. They knew where they were.
Without blurring boundaries the truth proved to be ugly.
She read somewhere once that green complements brown. She felt her numb self melting as she sat on the green bed holding this box that had what she needed inside.
Wool. Knitting tools. Her creation would be complete. She is the gift that would keep giving.
Moving from green, to dancing shadows, to door, to the salty air and harsh winds, she moved further up hill. She moved further up until she sat down by the cliff where she made love to the draught and achieved loss. Now she would make love to herself, looking forward to the never ending horizon instead of loving at a wet brown body lying on top of her.
She finished moving and sat on the cliff. Her house, the draught, the green, the dancing shadows were behind her now. She could only do and not think.
Spreading her legs and replacing the emptiness with the box, her feet floated a mile above the smooth wet rocks being licked by the ocean’s children.
She knitted brown and green to finally hold up to the sky and laugh. I am not submitting my creations in accordance to you.
She knitted until there was no wool left. A shapeless scarf that required more warmth and comfort. So, pulling on a thread of her long yellow dress she continued knitting. Each click was a welcome and a goodbye. Each click would be heard by her failed creation, by the house, by the draught.
The winds licked her legs and attempted to comfort her vessel to make up for the space left by the discarded box. Wet drops from the clouds above kissed her layered stomach and life giving breasts as her dress was hitched higher and higher. Her hair was so dense due to the length getting confused with the threads from her yellow dress. The threads of her head became one with her attire, she was becoming one. A foot of jet black mingled with the shapeless green, brown, and yellow.
She was being made love to by her surroundings as she became altered with her hands inching up herself. Her unrelenting hands. Her fingers came closer, pulling on her skull as the clicks became louder. Deafeningly loud. She had never heard anything so close to her.
She was now a puppet, with her hand made strings pulling her spine forward into the oceans embrace. She joined her floating feet and swooped down the chalky cliff, clicking along to every heart beat she wanted to give warmth and comfort. She clicked, finally clicked with it all. Her soft stomach gave a click as it welcomed the knitting needles upon greeting the wet rocks entwined with the oceans embrace. She clicked.
She is the gift that finally gave. She gave back.