The Scarf of Life
“A nice little old lady made this scarf for me. Nostradamus’ mother knitted it for me.”
He’s coming soon. She knows. She’s been knitting for a while now. How long? Days on end. It could be weeks. It doesn’t really matter. The people around her think she’s just taken with another fit. This time, she’s knitting an incomprehensible striped monstrosity. She doesn’t care. They see so little. She sees too much. Her son is a little mad from all he sees. He writes constantly, using imagery the others struggle to comprehend. She can see the struggle and lack of comprehension stretching for millennia. It doesn’t matter. Seers are never appreciated. The multitudes won’t understand even when it is too late. She is mad too. But that doesn’t bother her much. Her present task is before her. She’ll never be done. But the symbolism will be there. She’ll even tell him. She’s seen it. She’ll give it to a man who looks ancient. He even thinks he is ancient already. But really he is so young. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t even suspect yet.
She hears singing, and drums, and screams, and silence. But mostly singing. She knits faster. He’s coming soon. She’ll give him her creation and tell him it is his life as she saw it. He’ll nod, and thank her, but not understand. He doesn’t know yet how the vortex sings in a human mind. In the future he’ll think about what she said and he’ll think each row of knitting is a year of his life. She doesn’t have time for the thousands of rows she sees. What he doesn’t know and won’t suspect for so long is that it’s not each row, but each stitch that is a year. He is forever. Not immortal, that’s why the colors change, but forever.
She cackles to herself as she forms the stitches, all interlocked and holding together the whole. She laughs again. He wants to be tailor to the universe. Design the ultimate garment. Little does he know that he is the needle that mends the whole of space and time. She laughs again. Fate is rarely kind. But this is not a cruel joke. Simply one he will not understand for a very long time. Her poor gift will be worn almost as a joke itself. It’s good though. He shouldn’t bear the full burden now. There will be time enough for that. He’s coming. Very soon. She must finish as much as she can. Perhaps a fringe? To add to the joke. She laughs again.
“A nice little old lady made this scarf for me. Nostradamus’ mother knitted it for me.”
He’s coming soon. She knows. She’s been knitting for a while now. How long? Days on end. It could be weeks. It doesn’t really matter. The people around her think she’s just taken with another fit. This time, she’s knitting an incomprehensible striped monstrosity. She doesn’t care. They see so little. She sees too much. Her son is a little mad from all he sees. He writes constantly, using imagery the others struggle to comprehend. She can see the struggle and lack of comprehension stretching for millennia. It doesn’t matter. Seers are never appreciated. The multitudes won’t understand even when it is too late. She is mad too. But that doesn’t bother her much. Her present task is before her. She’ll never be done. But the symbolism will be there. She’ll even tell him. She’s seen it. She’ll give it to a man who looks ancient. He even thinks he is ancient already. But really he is so young. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t even suspect yet.
She hears singing, and drums, and screams, and silence. But mostly singing. She knits faster. He’s coming soon. She’ll give him her creation and tell him it is his life as she saw it. He’ll nod, and thank her, but not understand. He doesn’t know yet how the vortex sings in a human mind. In the future he’ll think about what she said and he’ll think each row of knitting is a year of his life. She doesn’t have time for the thousands of rows she sees. What he doesn’t know and won’t suspect for so long is that it’s not each row, but each stitch that is a year. He is forever. Not immortal, that’s why the colors change, but forever.
She cackles to herself as she forms the stitches, all interlocked and holding together the whole. She laughs again. He wants to be tailor to the universe. Design the ultimate garment. Little does he know that he is the needle that mends the whole of space and time. She laughs again. Fate is rarely kind. But this is not a cruel joke. Simply one he will not understand for a very long time. Her poor gift will be worn almost as a joke itself. It’s good though. He shouldn’t bear the full burden now. There will be time enough for that. He’s coming. Very soon. She must finish as much as she can. Perhaps a fringe? To add to the joke. She laughs again.