The Thread

The knitting club meets at the women’s center every ­Friday. Today they are working on ­pastel-colored baby socks.

The women clink metal needles and grumble about their husbands, ex-husbands, and rheumatic pets.

“Charlie forgot to take out the recycling yesterday. The trash man had to come into my house because I have such a cold, and he smelled like stale beer.”

The lady with silvery hair draws the curtains ­embroidered with peacocks. Pale light floods the cream-wallpapered parlor.

“The sky looks like rain. Maybe we’ll get a ­thunderstorm if the wind picks up. I’m terrified of storms at night – when the sky bursts like a Polaroid camera.”

The lady who likes to knit in yellow brings in her record player every week. She plays vinyl recordings of Chopin, Dizzy Gillespie, and during the winter, Dean Martin’s Christmas carols.

“This week we have Chopin’s Concerto No. 2, but there’s a scratch right after the first movement.”

They sip black-as-shoe-polish coffee from tiny porcelain cups until their tight buns uncoil into soft, ash-colored curls.

“It’s too weak today. Too watery.”

The lady with silvery hair pulls out twisted strands from her scalp and weaves them into each row of the sock pattern.

“I want my grandbaby to know what I smelled like when I’m gone.”