stitches. from an application essay.

The winds of the hurricane outside growl at the windows, throwing all the rain they can, but it’s calm inside. The air conditioning unit in the wall is humming afternoon lullabies, mismatched and out of tune. My mother is sprawled on the sheets of her bed, my little brother, Taylor, who’s four years old, using her bare arm as a pillow, his hand wound in her hair. Their breaths are shallow, in unison. Their faces say they are dreaming about sweet things.
My dad is reading to Christine, my older sister, who’s nine years old, in the chairs by the little standard hotel room table. She’s bossy, though, so soon she’s reading to him.
Grama and I are leaning on each other, sitting at the edge of my bed. Her hands are over mine, her sensible fingers leading my silly ones. I feel the contrast of metal, wool, wrinkled and smooth skin. Her breath lands on my arms, cool and concentrating. My Grama is teaching me how to knit.
Each stitch is awkward, some not making it to their second row, jutting out at all angles, asking for something to hold them in. The end, where we started, is uneven, as though someone was pulling it in every direction as it was made. This is a scarf no one will buy, but I’m determined to finish it.
“Knitting is very important.” Grama’s words land on my arms like snowflakes. “It means love.” She stops for a moment to correct the position of my pinky. “Do you see how every bit of yarn goes through your fingers, so none of it is untouched?”
I nod, focused on not dropping the stitch my needle is holding.
“That’s so the person who wears it can feel the love inside,” Grama explains. “When I was in Peru last year, I bought a hat. It’s pretty—you’ve seen it. It’s the one with people all over it.” I nod, agreeing. “I don’t know who made that hat, but every time I wear it, I can feel that it’s made with love.”
I accidentally drop the next two stitches, their loops like little lopsided eyes staring at me. Grama laughs. “Once you practice some more,” she chortles,” I’ll teach you to fix your mistakes.”
The air conditioner begins another song to the beat of the hurricane outside as my sister starts on the next chapter of Dad’s book. Mom and Taylor remain still and sleeping. I imagine wearing out scarf when we leave Florida, the wool keeping me warm while I paste snow angels onto the ground and sled down the biggest hill. I learn to create love the day Grama teaches me to knit.