Made with Love

“Click- clack, clickety-clack.” Goes the metal knitting needles clicking away.

The scraping of metal and the creaking of a wooden rocking chair were the sounds of home. The sounds of safety. The sounds of peace. I learned this lullaby first with my grandmother, lying beside her, until I too learned this instrument.

I remember I would watch the string dance and move as it was woven together. How it astounded me! One little string could make socks and scarves, sweaters and satchels.

It took hours.

“It is made with love, my dear.” She replied when I asked her why she did not buy it.

And that was her reply to everything.

“It is made with love.” She replied as she pulled cookies from the oven

“It is made with love.” She replied as she turned strawberries into jam.

“It is made with love.” She replied as she tucked the blankets around me.

I admire her for that.

“It is made with love.” I reply, handing over the scarf.

“It is made with love.” I reply, giving out cinnamon buns.

“It is made with love.” I reply, handing back the embroidered jacket.

Yarn was bought that was soft and silky. Every stitch was carefully made. Every design was pleasing to the eye with squares and stripes, chevrons and flowers. Hours, it represents. Hours of my life. Hours that I will never get back. They’re worth it.

Ingredients were bought and carefully measured. It was mixed, proven, and baked. I packaged them with care. Hours, it represents. Hours of my life. Hours that I will never get back. They’re worth it.

The threads were ordered and needles prepped. Colors were chosen and the stitches were made. Flowers bloomed underneath my hands and bees flew under my fingers. Scissors snipped the last thread and the jacket was complete. Hours, it represents. Hours of my life. Hours that I will never get back. They’re worth it.

Only to see my scarf thrown onto the floor.

Only to see cinnamon buns lay untouched.

Only to see my jacket in the back of her closet.

It taught me.

It taught me that I shouldn’t waste my love on people who don’t value it.

It taught me to love myself.

Everything we make holds a piece of us. What we make represents our time. We are saying that we would rather spend it on you then doing anything else. So as the yarn dances and as the needles click, that is how we weave our love into the stitches.

So now I wrap a scarf around my neck on cold days. I wrap blankets around myself for those lonely nights. I make sweaters with designs of my own choosing. I eat what I make, fresh from the oven. I let my designs flow from the paper onto the cloth. And I am happier. I am happier to make for the sake of making. I am happier for the peace it brings to my mind; for the quietness… It almost feels like meditation to focus on what is underneath your hands and repeat the same motions over, and over, and over again.

My joy from knitting has never gone away no matter if it is appreciated or not. But now, I can appreciate myself and I can appreciate my life.

To be alone without loneliness.

“Click-clack, clickety-clack” Scrapes my needles as the string sways back and forth.

I rock in my chair as I knit a present for my grandmother; the woman who shows love with everything she does. I hear the creaking of the wood and the clacking of needles and it feels like home.