His mother didn’t seem to love him, but she loved to knit.
Incapable of displaying affection, she knit her way out of hindrance,
out of hardship, and into her son’s heart.
She knit to settle the strings of spite her son had long sustained.
She knit to cut and clear the coiled strings that confined their love.
She knit to make him smile in the only way she knew how.
Secluded from her son, she would sit under dim light,
tying and thrusting yarn to halt the growing gaps.
She knit to tighten a bond that was on the verge of shattering.
She knit to seal a relationship that would never be solidly secured.
She knit to make him smile in the only way she knew how.
Knowing the end of the yarn was an everlasting jumble, 
his mother continued to unravel and unwind,
to restore and repair… an act of love.
But that wasn’t what she called it.