Gather

“You made it!”

“Of course, Liz. Wouldn’t miss it.”

You sat with Liz on the grass. The sun hadn’t quite set yet, but it was there, orange beams of light snaking through the branches and leaves. The summer heat was relentless — the very air felt like it singed the tips of the hair on your arms and the skin on your cheeks.

And in this warm, Liz basked in it with an old, worn cardigan. And you wore a equally fraying pullover.

“Oh no,” you remarked, noticing one of the granny squares at the fringe had started to tear away. You held it between your fingers gingerly, careful not to pull on it any harder than you should have.

“Yeah,” Liz sighed. “It was my bad. Shouldn’t have yanked it off the hanger.”

“It’ll be fine,” you smiled. “Until it lasts, right?”

“Until it lasts,” she smiled, hugging her own chest warmly. “Still so comfy.”

“Itchy, but comfy,” you smirked, scratching your neck.

“Hey, that’s ‘cause you’re always so sweaty!,” she joked.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I love this sweater,” you defended, crossing your arms. “It looks good on me.”

Liz sighed. “It does.”

You looked ahead into the distance, trees swaying in the wind. Nothing passed by here: no animals, no cars, rarely any people. It was a quiet spot you rarely visited, though today was one of those days.

“I haven’t finished the beanie.”

Liz rested her head on her arms. “Yeah?”

“I haven’t even touched it.”

Liz smiled again, however distant and melancholic.

“Same. The scarf is still just there at home.”

“Yeah,” you sighed.

You paused. Liz paused. Everything paused, like the birds and bugs stopped flying in the breezy, whooshing wind.

“It’s like…,” you began, your chest slowly getting heavy. “It’s like, when I pick up the hooks, my arms feel so heavy. And then I fumble a knot. Or I lose count. And I have to start all over. But…,” you struggle, another shaky sigh escaping your chest. “I don’t want to.”

Liz looked at you still, tears welling in her eyes. Her nose was red now, redder than the afternoon sky.

“I tried once,” she replied. “And the one chain I made looked so different.”

You moved closer to her and let her rest her head on your shoulder. The both of you sniffled, tears running into the worn yarn on your sweaters.

You chuckled. Liz looked up at you, eyes still reddened.

“Remember how she almost made us start our own sweaters?”

Liz laughed, eyes squeezed tight as she remembered, and cried, and laughed, and sighed as she caught her breath in a single continuity of feeling.

“We couldn’t even get granny squares down!,” Liz laughed. “And you made a dick when you fucked up a clover!”

You laughed, the tension released all at once, and you too laughed and cried and sighed to catch your breath.

Silence.

“We really need to try doing it again, you know?,” you suggested. “How else are we gonna repair these?”

“Maybe they’re meant to be this way,” Liz sighed. “Maybe they’re perfect just the way they are.”

“They are,” you smiled, wrapping an arm around Liz.

“I miss you,” Liz whispered. “I wish you were here to teach us how to fix these things.”

“I do too,” you added. “You used to be so patient with us.”

You placed the flower by the polished slab, sitting with Liz while you enjoyed the summer breeze.

“Three years,” you sighed. “Maybe we could go to your place? I’ll help you with the scarf.”

“Really?,” Liz beamed.

“Yeah. It’s what she would have wanted.”

Liz hugged you tightly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” you grinned, looking to the headstone.

“Thank you too,” she greeted it. “I promise we’ll try and finish it this year.”

“Careful now,” you cautioned, pulling Liz up as you stood. “She might haunt you in your dreams.”

“Maybe she’ll haunt me by teaching me how to crochet again,” Liz joked.

“Hey! That’s a terrible joke!,” you laughed.

“What? You know she would!,” Liz defended.

“She would,” you sighed, still laughing with Liz as you walked away, hand in hand.

“What if we don’t get it right again?,” she asked.

“We will,” you reassured. “One day.”

“And one day we’ll make new sweaters just like hers,” she smiled.