The first real garment I knit for myself was a shrug. Blue, the colour of the summer sky. For some winters when my kids were small, I survived through the slow counting of stitches reeling after desperately sleepless nights. My exhaustion was anchored in the repetitive flutter of my hands, condoled by the softness of alpacas and merinos, comforted by the hypnotic alterations of variegated colour and handspun texture. It was colour that kept me sane on gray winter days, that mesmerized my brain with jewel tones and contrast and the soothing lilt of monochromes. It was enough to see beautiful things emerge under my hands. Sometimes it was more than enough.
Word prompt: shrug. Brief daily writing with a small group of women by email. Day 32 of this new format. This is from the backlog.