To the little girl on the train with the corkscrew curls

That greying white pillow with the head and tail of a cat sewn on, occasional stitch popped, is the first taste you’ll have of unconditional love.

 As you twist its darkened tail around your little finger and slip your thumb into your mouth, you don’t realize the value of this comfort. When he breaks your heart, when she leaves you confused and bereft, you will clutch a grown-up pillow, headless, down one heart-shaped nose and pink triangle whiskers. You’ll sob into its high cotton thread count and you won’t know that the ache in your chest is actually a longing for dirty plush against your cheek and the smell of a city and your mother threaded among worn-out fibers. You’ll forget this kind of contentedness.

 You won’t remember that all you had to do was look a stranger in the eye in order to make her smile at everything you actually are, free of contrivance and social graces. You won’t know the power your brown eyes, squinted in a smile bereft of fear and insecurity, have on that stranger. You won't know you made her crave the taste of everything trapped beneath the curve of a thumbnail, tongue-smoothed.

September

I decided to let Open Season sit a little longer before I take a whack at it. I'm intrigued by the restauranteur and his wife, and might write a bit more about them. Something about those two made their section the most fun to write, and I feel there's more to tell. Perhaps they will merit their own piece.

Meantime, I just procrastinated for two hours by starting to teach myself to knit (again). To be fair, last time a friend started it for me, and I was just practicing by knitting lots of rows using a particular style of knitting she showed me. This time, I've learned how to begin myself and am using the traditional knit stitch. I'm going to practice that until I feel the rows have become less sloppy and then start throwing some purls in. I'm fancy like that. Never without my purls.

Anyway, since I seriously doubt a photo of several rows of sloppy stitches will make for exciting blog fodder, I won't post it yet, but if I get to a point where I feel I'm committed and improving, I shall share!

"We might've been able to save Mr. Dumpty, had those blasted horses not insisted on helping."