By Ellen Xu, Stanford University, graduating in '27
July 15, 2023

i started knitting in elementary school

the first ball of purple yarn unraveling between twin chopsticks

nails aching with the rhythm of each loop

slipping my fingers under threads to create the stitches

at first too loose, too uneven, the gaping holes

a pocket through a four-stitch cable

 

i couldn’t even bind off right the first time

frayed threads and loose ends

like a kitten chasing a ball of yarn

i got tangled and eventually

so were you

we, like chopsticks, moved together

mending gaps in the clashing air with twisted strands of fiber

 

we would weave in and out

of mom and dad’s arguments

sidestepping threads of stinging words 

objects hurtled at one another

a trail of smoke clamping us from gaps under closed doors

 

absconding into my room

we would lay down on the bed

sore fingers interlocking like the crisscross of a hand-knit scarf

wrapping ourselves in thick blankets

pillows squeezed tight around our ears

 

if only our cloth was stronger than the steel of sharpened words

daggers carved from diamonds and golden vows

a ripped seam unraveling the ties into a black void 

 

staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling

we tried to trace constellations from dying supernovas

and weave gravity into planets losing their orbits in outer space

 

that night

i asked if you thought they would break apart

my voice small

as if i were the younger sister

 

you said no

your words heartening

yet i held my breath and prayed

until i could hear their footsteps coming upstairs

and the clunk of their doors closing in separate rooms

 

when we finally found out two years later

dad had passed to the other side of the world

and mom’s english, had broken like splintered bamboo

 

we, sitting in the back of the car when she told us

shoulders touching

our fingers numb and pulling at obscure air

as we kept knitting, knitting, knitting