A Solitary Yarn

 An imaginative composed by Brenalyn (Year 11 Advanced English, Mackillop Catholic College)

The blue threads of Erlinda's veins interlink with the yarn, soft and malleable within withering hands. Her fingers pair with the knitting needles in a slow dance, easing the yarn into a growing rectangle on her lap. The process is simple; straightforward. The shapes of yarn she fashions are distinct; sometimes either a scarf for her daughter or a hat to keep Erlinda warm in the winter. It's easy. The light tap of her wooden needles hushes the whirr of muddled thoughts which comprises her mind.

If only her mind was as tangible as the yarn.

The tea that was brought to her by Vivienne a few moments before is still warm, but the memory of it has seemed to linger from Erlinda's mind like the smoke which now trails from the cup. Erlinda's stomach rumbles, but she forgets the sound. It's gone with the breeze which floats gently through the room from the partially open window to her left. The sun is hidden by grey clouds edging their way across the sky.

A knock comes from the door.

"Mum, I'm back!" It's the soft call of Vivienne. Her small figure enters the room, a bowl held like a prize in her hands and a large smile plastered on her youthful face. Erlinda struggles to make sense of her features; the blue of Vivienne eyes, the freckles dotting her nose and cheeks, and her brunette bun, slicked and shiny atop her head. The smile she offers to Erlinda oozes familiarity. Erlinda does not return it. She watches the smoke trailing from the bowl sitting patiently within the girl's small hands. Her stomach rumbles - more earnest this time.

Vivienne provides a soft smile within the silence that her greeting is met with. She shuffles to sit gently besides Erlinda on the beige sofa, placing the tray on the little glass table at their knees. A silver fork and spoon rests neatly beside the bowl.

"A new scarf, Mum?" She asks pleasantly, indicating the soft purple yarn laying on Erlinda's lap.

"Oh, yes," Erlinda replies, followed by her resumed tap, tap, tapping of her knitting needles.

"Would you like to eat your soup first?" Vivienne asks.

"What soup?"

"This soup."

Erlinda watches the smoke trailing from the bowl. It holds a yellowish liquid dotted with herbs and traced with noodles. Her stomach rumbles.

"Okay."

Vivienne picks up the fork and scoops a decent tangle of noodles onto it, bringing it carefully to Erlinda's lips with a hand underneath to catch what Erlinda fails to swallow. It takes her a few moments to gather the food in her mouth and chew the noodles with her aged teeth, yellowed and cracked by time. It's tedious; tiring. After she swallows, Erlinda returns to her knitting . All that is heard for a few seconds is the tapping of the knitting needles, soft and pattering like the rain which falls now against the windows.

"Mum?" Vivienne says softly.

Erlinda does not respond. Vivienne places a gentle hand on her mother's shoulder. "Mum?" She repeats.

Erlinda looks up from her knitting needles at the stranger seated beside her, and says nothing.

"Mum, can I braid your hair again?" Vivienne asks, a small and faint request, almost an echo of her voice.

"Okay," Erlinda replies, preoccupied with her knitting. She must have the scarf finished for her daughter soon, so she does not grow cold in the coming winter.

"Thank you," Vivienne bounces from her seat and weaves between the table to get behind the sofa. She gathers Erlinda's long white hair and splays it against the couch, and it falls like snow spilling over the beige. Her fingers intertwine with the faded strands, easing them slowly and precisely into an elegant braid. The process is simple; straightforward. It occurs with the tapping of Erlinda's knitting needles harmonising in the background. It's the only sound for a long while.

'Mum, you may need a haircut," Vivienne says eventually, her hands growing tired with still a third of hair left to braid.

"No, I like it," Erlinda responds, "It's long, like yours, Vivienne."

Vivienne pauses her braid.

Suddenly, her hands are not as tired anymore. 

'Vivienne," Her mother had said.

A familiar sting begins to burn behind her eyes. She looks down at her mother's white hair, at the wrinkles lining her forehead, at the still-warm food and tea abandoned on the table. But then she sees the growing yarn in her mother's lap, and it's intricate thread, and the sturdy hands of her mother whom shapes it now.