Sunday, February 13, 2011

I take some knitting out of my bag. Hospital time is like elevator time--its own physics.

Breakfast was something of a joke--we each got a bagel, took a few bites, and then looked at it. I wanted to enjoy it. I wanted to taste the cream cheese, taste the dried onions and garlic and the seeds.

"We should probably wrap them up and take them with us," Becky suggested.

"And eat them when?"

"You're right."

Even though we were raised not to waste things--especially not to waste food--we pitched the mostly uneaten bagels and walked back to the hospital.

"Should we wait in the room? Where do we wait?"

"I don't know," Becky said. She stopped at the nurses' station and asked.

"She said we'd probably be more comfortable in the room. They'll let us know when Mom's out of surgery."

So here we are, and the hours stretch like bum on the bottom of a shoe.

"I have some more needles, if you want something to do."

"Sure," Becky says with relief.

We share a few moments digging through the yarn, and then we both settle into our chairs, needles clicking. This is better.

But now, with no worries about my sister and big worries about my mother and needles working their meditative way, I start to think about Sevario and Henry. While I'm knitting a sweater, my thoughts unravel.

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