Originally uploaded by norvegal
I have been given an extraordinary task.
About three years ago, I waxed poetic here about Wayne, my elderly neighbor with a penchant for exquisite woodpiles. He and his wife Grace live just up the road from me in a tiny trailer that feels like Snow White should pop out from around a corner and start singing with the animals. It's a magic little place.
Grace is a living embodiment of her name, and Wayne was a lovely man, strong and smart but with a wonderfully mischievious glint in his eye. I didn't know him well, but he was a benevolent presence. I'd see him outside, tending his wood piles, raking blueberries, or keeping his driveway meticulously clear of snow and ice. We'd nod, smile, and wave.
Wayne passed away this spring, and I still feel a lump in my throat when I drive past their little house. He'd been sick for many months, during which time Grace never left his side. Now, after a quiet period of seclusion, she is back out in the world. She is getting her kitchen repainted and her deck repaired, signing up for more satellite TV channels, and basically filling me with awe and appreciation for the lessons she is teaching me just by living.
While not a knitter, Grace is a fixture at my knit-in. She brings her embroidery and sewing projects, and we all hang on her every word.
Well, last week she presented me with a whopper.
Wayne had a funny middle finger that was shorter than the others. Grace's aunt had knit two pairs of special gloves for him, tailoring that middle finger to fit his hand perfectly. He wore them faithfully all these years.
Grace handed me two of those special gloves and asked if I could reknit the shorter finger in each so that it extended the length of a normal finger. She is sentimental and practical -- she wanted a nephew to have Wayne's gloves, but she wanted him to actually be able to wear them.
So I shall unravel those stitches that were so carefully placed there some 40 years ago by another knitter. And in the reknitting of those stitches, I shall miraculously heal Wayne's funny finger.
I wonder if he's sitting up in the blueberry field watching over this and smiling? I dearly hope so.