Crocheting

The fluffy sun falls below the fluffy meadow; the strings of gold, along with the stellar spot, retreat from the vast horizon. The motherly heat of the day fizzles out from the woolly earth. It’s night again, and Ami’s soul is left with the familiar, claustrophobic darkness. 

Ami storms home full of tears. His hand is torn apart – his professor, unimpressed by his assignment, told him off and demanded him to submit a new one next week; his legs threadbare – Guru told everyone his dirty secret. Will the whole class oscratise him? “I don’t have time to cry, I have a test tomorrow,” he tried to overcome the fountain of tears, but he failed; his neck was worn out.  Now, he can’t even raise his head to reach for the dreamy stars 

He flung the door, and surprisingly, the lights were on – Mis was in his room. There was a ball of yarn and a hook on the table next to her. 

“Who are you? What are you doing in my room? Get out!” Ami’s tone was tense. 

“You need help,” Mis looked at him and said calmly, “I’m here to help you.” Oddly, she didn’t feel offended by his caustic command. 

“I don’t need your help, stranger. I say get out now! ” his face twitched, while his reddish eyes were lit with menace. He clumsily fished out his phone, brandishing it like a weapon. 

Mis returned him with gentle, pitiful eyes. Before Ami was quick to respond, she held his arms and lugged him onto a chair. His protest was too weak to fight against her composed movements. He was, after all, partly succumbed by his own weight. Mis took a few moments to quiet him down. And with that, she swiftly picked up the yarn and hook, and started mending Ami’s wounds. As she weaves out the tears and lacerations, the feelings of recovery gradually put Ami into a restful sleep.

—

Packing up, Mis tiptoed out of Ami’s house and reunited with the gelid night. She looks ahead – the Moon just emerged from the low swirling cloud: half of it consumed by darkness, the other half revealed contours of its interlacing fabrics. The light illuminated the meadow, and Mis saw the area bubbled with small archly curves. The scene looked like a communion of mini-Moons – each strand of grass reflected the awe of the celestial nobility. Like mirror fragments floating on the dark sea, they tremble and blink under the whims of the wind.

Mis squat down, her overstretched arm bristled by the undulating strands of grass. The touch was soft against her skin, and it made her anguish. In her world, soft equates to cold; tenderness connotes pain. Hardness, however, is a sign of virtue, a badge of success. In the world of strings and wool, attaining the character of steel is a divine achievement. People surround themselves with cars, houses, and cities – they are the monuments of our ideals; victorious bayonets against our true nature. One even said that if technology catches up, the Moon might be blocked out from the sky forever. 

Once Mis was said to be a dreamer, but perhaps she believes everyone else is.

When everyone else sees skyscrapers, she sees meadows. When everyone sees asphalt, she sees grass. When everyone sees a warrior, she sees a child. When everyone sees shields, she sees wounds. She sees things as they are – all made of wool, yarn, needles and hooks. The shifting strings of grass reminds of her accursed knowledge, the wisdom of which only she possessed. “Of all the people, why me?”, she murmured.

–

She heard a silent cry. And she stood up.