Insomnia Chronicles XXII

Erin Murphy

The night is full of insomniacs googling insomnia. My friend’s fiancé knitted her a shawl for Christmas. I am shocked. Shocked that a man knitted a shawl. Shocked that I am shocked that a man knitted a shawl. After all, I think of myself as enlightened. But I can’t see my husband scissoring knitting needles on the sofa as we binge a show. Can’t see him comparing yarns at The Purple Purl, rubbing them between his fingers the way he tests fluid leaks from his Jeep. Water or oil? Mohair or angora? Confession: I had to look up types of yarns. Turns out the most common searches are for types of flowers, apples, headaches, and clouds. When I was a kid, my mother’s friends gathered in our living room Wednesday nights to knit and quilt and crochet and sip wine. Mostly sip wine. They called their group Stitch & Bitch. The stitching was an excuse to get out of the house. I could hear the shrieks of laughter from my canopy bed. Linda had a snort that seemed to well up from her core. Linda who went back to school in her 40s. Linda who founded a nonprofit for deaf victims of domestic violence. Linda who now has dementia and doesn’t recognize her daughter. My mother tried to teach me to knit. I never mastered casting off, so I knit scarves the length of human intestines stretched end to end, which, according to my eighth-grade anatomy teacher, is the height of a giraffe. What’s the collective noun for giraffes? Herd? Yes, but also journey. A journey of giraffes. Journey. Ours feels long but is lightning quick. Flowers and apples and headaches and clouds. Knit if you want to knit.