My bucket list is getting longer.
I want to learn to knit. I carry my yarn and needles with me everywhere. I shop at eclectic yarn shops. I approach complete strangers wearing sweaters and attempt to strike up conversations. “What a lovely sweater,” I say, occasionally spinning my own little yarn. “Is it handmade?”
The clerk at the counter rings up my purchases. “Oh, did you make that sweater?” she asks, eyeing my yellow angora monstrosity. “Yes,” I lie. Our eyes meet. She knows.
But I’ll think about that later. Right now, I’m hearing the voices again.
“Knit one, purl two.”