Six Fingers

She came from that special tribe of women whose hands have six fingers each. Fingers that appear a blur of agitation chattering amongst themselves in a language I could never understand. 9th Row: * Yo, K1, yo, sl 1, K1, psso, K13, K2tog, yo, K1, yo, K2 tog, K2 (yo) twice, K2, K2tog; repeat from * all round. As a child I watched as her architecture exploded in rhythm and rhyme, my eyes dazzled with reflections of their ceaseless motion. I thought of spiders spinning webs, of clouds delivering snowflakes made of white unfolding tapestries. It was living art, breathing from an inward rhythm, gaining life before my eyes. Her fingers, ten of flesh and two of bone, like fencing masters parry- thrusting patterns in the air. long bones bobbing, weaving, nearly, neatly, kissing, then retreating, fast as fighter jets leaving contrails of air and finery behind, kissing the air, to leave each slender thread embraced, membranes laced with love and intuition. Doilies brought to fruition with loving hands; her many fingers moving, proving themselves over and over in secret patterns surging, revealing their purpose merging crocheted gifts of adept urging. Breathing life to limp and simple strings with all the love that her attention brings. Gifts brought to a world made better by hands and willing heart. Hands that held six fingers each and turned her sacred language into art.