I felt like a child in a candyshop, a kaleidoscope of colors. I ran my fingers around the rough edges of the yarn, stout and warm. It would live around me eventually, reminding me of winters past and winters to come. The comfort of the yarn was familiar in its look and its smell: Sunday afternoons with Grandma on the couch, the smell of pulao floating through the hallway, my 10 year old self taking cold metal needles, wrapping the frayed yarn. Knit 1, Purl 2, Knit 1, Purl 2 , staring intently, scrunching my face from concentrating so hard. As I got better, the act of knitting became a ride, fluid and automated. knit 1, purl 2, knit 1, purl 2, knit 1, purl 2. Textured yarn hugging my cold metal needles. Clink clink, clink clink, went the needles as I quickened my pace, yarn like a fruit by the foot unraveling.