When Sal started on a project her excitement was always too much to bear. But this emotion sprang less from her interest in the project, than from her thirst to learn. Her father had always said to her that the ability to learn was the greatest calling. And though neither she nor her father had ever reached great heights in academia, they both nevertheless enjoyed a great multitude of hobbies.
Knit, purl, knit, purl – the pattern of a clean row of knit yarn. Keep the strand taught across the fingers of your left hand, but not too much.
“Don’t let your hands get too sweaty” was a warning her father always gave her, though it was never a problem that she encountered.
“Yours are the sweaty hands” she would say.
“Are yours too cool to sweat?” her father would invariably ask. She smirked every time he said it, though the humour of this jest waned in recent years.
“How much is needed today?” Sal asked one morning, pointing to the skeins of yarn scattered atop the breakfast table.
“Well, let’s see,” said her father. He pulled a crinkly sheet of paper from underneath a tangled mass of bluish-grey yarn and held it stiffly in his hand. “Four more squares today to keep up our schedule,” referring to a silent agreement kept between Sal and her father.
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