And so the songs are way down low
This is the story of a lost scarf.
I took out a special skein of yarn for our family trip to Tennessee this year. Knowing I would have a lot of time to knit, I started a fingering-weight lace scarf in a beautiful veil-dyed green with a silver thread running through it. It grew slowly during the lazy days and firefly-lit nights at our cabin in the woods. I thought the verdant scarf would always remind me of that summer.
During that same trip I visited a yarn store and bought two balls of Mini Mochi, a yarn I’d long wanted to try. Again I was drawn to the green, but this time shaded with woodsy browns and darker pines. I came home and put the Mini Mochi in my stash, thinking I’d use it for one of those triangular scarves knit end to end, the better to show the slowly changing colors.
And then one day I lost the scarf in progress, somewhere between a doctor appointment and home, and no amount of searching would locate it. In the blink of an eye, those vacation hours of stitching, and the memento I had planned, were gone.
I pulled the Mini Mochi out and began immediately — a replacement scarf, not the same pattern nor color nor sparkle, not even the same shape, but connected to the vacation and family and that cabin and those woods and that sun-dappled field where we played whiffle ball every morning. And now it’s done. Just the way I imagined it, but for a different reason. One lost, one gained. The green of oak leaves, the chartreuse of unmown hay, the brown of forest loam. As light as a memory, as the scarf that disappeared, resting lightly on my shoulders, mine for a season only. Nothing gold can stay.