Inside a clear box
in my storeroom
sits a small ivory sweater
hand knit when I was born.

Petite pink roses
dot the collar
and pearly buttons
adorn the front.

In my memory,
my grandmother’s knitting needles
moved constantly —
while watching tv
or chatting with family.

The needles are now mine.
You see,
knitting was woven
into my DNA
the day I was born.

On various needles,
I have
a cowl for my sister,
a hat for my son,
a scarf for my spouse.

For me,
magic resides in
needles and yarn.