A Conversation with Yarn

Megan McLaughlin ‘25

I never really got crochet.

Not on those sunny days of soft winds

when I was younger.

It seemed like magic,

in a way

–the way my Mimi’s fingers danced

through clover soft yarn.

The way she whispered,

the way it listened,

the way she turned something unspun

into that purple hat I wore for years.

No,

I never really got it.

Not when I brazenly decided

I’d do the very same thing

–hook in hand–

singing though threads so surely.

Surely, it couldn’t be that hard,

to make something magnificent.

Something whole.

How wholly wrong I was

as my own calloused hands

tangled

tumbled

mumbled

their regrets

to this foreign land

of scattered notes,

left untouched for years…

until one afternoon

that wasn’t quite so sunny.

Wind turned to gales,

hale pelted windows and

closed eyes.

That’s when I decided

if those threads danced their own way

I’d dance with them,

chance a voyage of timid steps

–and slips and catches–

through uneven, looped hills.

It took me a bit to realize the storm

didn’t feel so loud

anymore

–as if it were making room

for another melody,

a slow woven cascade

of whispers

to clover soft yarn

–yearning,

waiting

to be heard,

as it whispered back.