2ktog

The knitting community on livejournal is having a short-story contest. Entries must begin with the phrase:
"As she held the ball of (any yarn) in her hand and ran a strand of it through her fingers, she could not help thinking of..."

Here's my entry, which may be disqualified for being 44 words too long, but I had a blast writing it and dedicate it to Michelle and Kathy, with love.

As she held the ball of Fun Fur in her hand and ran a strand of it through her fingers, she could not help thinking of Nina's funeral. Her brow furrowed, yet the variegated eyelash yarn in her hands remained unchanged, turquoise, pink and purple, deeply sinister. A simple yarn like this, petroleum-based, an unchanging symbol of the attempts of middle-aged, middle class women to add glamour to their lives -- how could this humble skein have caused her friend's death? After Nina's death, everyone in the knitting group swore they would never touch the stuff again, yet here she was, fingering it thoughtfully.

We told her it was a bad idea from the start. We told her it was ridiculous, decadent, even dangerous, an idea for women with fast lifestyles: cocaine, loud parties, stiletto heels. She didn’t listen, nothing we could say could make her turn back, nothing could bring her back to wool and cotton, even alpaca and mohair, For Christ Sakes! Anything! We offered her merino, Susan spun her a silk Romney blend that would take your breath away. But not like Fun Fur, which took Nina’s breath away permanently.

It was the socks that did it, the socks and the damn yoga ads. You know how it goes. She was double-stranding. It was that bad. She wanted to make an entire pair of socks out of it, she said it would be “Fun.” We didn’t know how to stop her. If only we could have gotten there in time, we could have raided our stashes, we could have offered her Lorna’s Laces, Mountain Colors Bearfoot. We could have brought her back, coaxed her to pick up some smaller needles, try something racy but not so fatal, some entrelac, maybe.

She was alone when she bound off, we all regret that now. If only it had been Sunday, if only we had all been there. We could have taken them away from her. We could have made the muppet fur jokes, persuaded her to give them to Lisa’s daughter to use as puppets.

But she was alone, and what’s worse, on hardwood. We’ve gone over the scene a thousand times in our minds. She puts on the socks. Oh yes, they are “Fun,” too fun, “Furry,” too furry! She starts twirling around, feeling footloose, free of any sense of propriety she gained from the LYS. Then she spotted it: the back of the Lion Brand Catalog. The yoga pose. She felt so free, she did her breath of fire. She felt invincible with those footies on. It could have been as simple as a pulled muscle, but she went for it, she gave it her all. Half way into the pose, she slipped. Her head hit the floor with a crack. Her fur-shod feet flew up before coming to rest at an unnatural angle.

What am I doing, standing here with this Fur in my hand? I am dishonoring the memory of my friend. I thought it would be harmless, I could make a hot pink scarf for my niece, she’d love it. I had forgotten. We rid our stashes of Fun Fur forever at Nina’s funeral, throwing the skeins in with the dirt clods. Ashes to ashes, acrylics to acrylics.