Threads.
In Greek mythology (which I’ve been bewitched by ever since Percy Jackson fell into my hands at the age of ten) there is a myth, that everyone has a lifeline, and it is depicted as a string of gold that is controlled by three witches. “The Fates.”
I wonder if it is morbid to believe that, in essence, these stories are true, and in fact mean that your life was never controlled by you, but by three old women and a string with your name on it. That your life was never yours to have, but just a thread at the end of a sweater that itches and scratches till someday fate grows tired and cuts you off. Is my life so small? So fragile?
Maybe that is what is beautiful about a knit sweater, the threads all woven together, my life worked into yours and our fates meet, even for a moment.
We may loosen apart after some time, maybe the dryer setting was too strong, and I release from the bind of all I have met. And, it would be my time anyway, rather than being cut off, just a necessary adjustment to ensure the bigger picture is salvaged, and maybe believing that isn’t as sad as I thought.