the ends.

 

I am desperately pleased with this sweater. And I don’t know why.

It’s not the most skilled knitting I’ve ever done, or the best-designed garment I’ve designed, or my first time steeking, or the biggest thing I’ve made, or the fastest. It’s not the most of anything.

Except: It is the most I’ve made for another person.

Knitting for others can be (ahem) difficult. Even if they pick out the yarn and the pattern and seem incredibly enthusiastic … the finished object might not match expectations. Swatches lie, yarns misbehave, and optimism overtakes reality. Sometimes we forget that our physical form is not exactly that of the lithe 15-year old in the pattern photograph. You know. Normal things.

So here, I did all the right things. I involved my gift-ee in the process. We talked about yarn weight; she chose the colors; I knit up swatches; I measured and consulted and made her try on half-finished sleeves.

All this took months. From yarn choice to casting on was two months, at least. Plus another few days months for knitting and reknitting and  reknitting, and …

… and still: it didn’t seem very long.

This sweater was my constant companion for half a year. Even before I began knitting I was designing, planning, thinking about shoulder seams and how many steeks I could fit into a single garment (three), and what about the buttonbands, and how am I going to manage the hood. And when knitting began, I carried yarn and needles to my job and knit there.

After a while it grew enormous. Then I took it to my sign language class, where I worked on it beforehand, as my friends and I chatted in English. (It is impossible to hold a conversation in sign language and knit, simultaneously. I have tried.)

I knit in fast-food booths — on sofas — on long car trips — in a rocking chair while the cat slept on my lap … and it didn’t become boring.

 

It’s my love and my patience and my work.

And all that’s left  is to weave in ends.

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