I'm knitting these days, working my way through various colors of novelty yarns, enjoying the feel of yarn in my hands as I turn out scarves for myself and for gifts. My cousin infected us with the knitting bug over the summer and knit and purl came back to me like riding a bicycle. I made my daughter a silly scarf in shades of pinks that twirls and doodles. I made myself a soft, warm scarf in shades of denim blue, and another in chenille tweed in stripes of black and red. I’m going to knit Julia a scarf out of the thick, chunky royal blue yarn that she choose and began herself, then lost interest in a day. If I’m a very nice mother, I’ll finish up the feathery boa she started with weird colors.

Knitting fills in the chinks of the weekend. In between, I clean out my art room with my sister's help, got rid of an old clunky file cabinet with my son's help, and cooked lasagna, chicken soup, and some artichokes to feed the family. I bought baskets of different types of apples: Winesaps, Macouns, Fuji, and Honey. So far the Macouns are the best. My hands get sticky and I wash them with lavender soap in order to pick up my knitting again.

Sunday afternoon, I slowly work on a wrap from yarn made from the ends of silk yarns used for saris. The ends are spun together by women in third world countries and provides an industry to support their families. It is the color of jewels: rubies, emeralds, sapphires and lapis lazuli with flecks of gold. It is so beautiful; I don’t know whether to knit it or place the skein in a wooden bowl and just stare at it. I decide to knit it with a yarn that is like a spider web of green mohair. The knitting store lady suggests I knit it on very large needles for lacy effect, but I'm having a tough time picking up the spun silk with the clunky plastic needles that look like broom sticks.

After a frustrating half-hour I put it down for the flash of fire and wood. It is the yarn pictured in the photo, Gedifra Pelliccia, an eyelash wool in crimson red. I am knitting it on smooth, bamboo needles and the yarn slips and slides nicely over the wooden surface. Although I've been cold all day, my hands have been warmed by the scarlet flying through my fingers. I can knit and watch TV, subtly aware of the flash of fire between my hands as I cast on and off. The thread of the yarn wraps loosely around my right index finger, and I relax to keep the tension loose and smooth while my mind whirls around the events of the day.

I think about my knitting sitting on the back seat of the car while I draw some architectural details of the old train station while we wait for Mystery Man’s train. Finally, I give in and close the journal and slowly knit instead of draw. I’d like to be getting on the train with him, with no other obligation for the next two and half hours than to sit and watch the Hudson River with hands full of wool the color of autumn. I knit dreamily as I watch my daughter's softball game in the late afternoon sun, grateful for the warmth of the scarf in the chill of the afternoon. I knit furiously while I talk to my husband on the phone and he tells me how much pain he is in, glad of the distraction of keeping track of the stitches as my stomach forms its own knots. I'd like to knit while my sister drives to the stamp store, but I forget my knitting in my car and have to sit idly while we whip up the parkway past the reservoir. The scarlet of the maple trees reflected in the water reminds me of my scarf and my fingers twitch of their own accord. When we get back to her house, I knit over cups of tea and a shared black and white cookie and belly laughs about educational jargon. Finally, I knit clickety clack to take my mind off my hunger pains as she readies a dinner of turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce, and the savory aromas make my mouth drool.

Hunger wins over knitting and I put the scarf down when my sisters says dinner is ready. My five year old nephew finishes before the rest of the family and goes into the sunroom to play. In a minute he is at my elbow, my scarf in his hand and my yarn twisted around the wheel of his micro truck. My heart skips a beat and I spend a minute untwisting the fragile threads from around the rubber wheel. He hides his face in his hands as I ask him how he managed this and that I’ll look pretty funny with a red scarf adorned with a green and white Hess truck. The yarn comes free just as I am about to resort to scissors and he leaves, redeemed.

I feel terrible about making him feel badly. It’s just knitting after all. Yarn and needles and fingers with nothing to do. It’s a big girl’s form of play, like running a microtruck over the sofa, under the pillows, onto the floor and across your aunt’s yarn. A way to pass the time, to forget yourself in minute detail, the zen of play.

Now I will knit off-handedly as I watch silly sitcoms and get ready for the work week. Sparks fly from my hands as I work my way through the garter stitch. My progress lies in my lap as it grows in length. I am the Buddha of knitting of perhaps, a sleepy Madame du Farge as I I have to rip out a few stitches to catch one I missed. I tuck it away into its little shopping bag, the one with the pretty sticker from the knitting store. I leave it on my night table so it’ll be ready for me tomorrow night when I come home, ready to play.