Knit Flowers

The sun hung low in the sky, illuminating the tall grass and flowers, and painting the modest farmhouse in a golden glow. A small girl strolled through the cow parsnips in a daze, feeling blissfully alone with only the flowers and her own thoughts. Unaware of the two women on the porch who marveled at her radiance, yet clucked disapprovingly at the supposed danger of her beauty. Their whispers stirred the air, but the girl paid them no attention. Instead, she gazed across the field in a listless stupor, eyes flickering across the flowers with a bored indifference. She didn’t even seem to notice them. Instead, she remembered the image of a young boy, holding out a blood soaked hand to her as an offering.

The porch of the farmhouse had long ago grown accustomed to the whispers of women, exchanging the gossip of the day and reflecting on the anecdotes of their past. Knitting by the faint glow of a lantern, the older woman, Alice, shared the day’s incident at the schoolhouse. With hushed incredulity, she recounted how the boy had scarcely even flinched as he plunged the blade into his own palm. And how Helen’s reaction was alarming, a keen interest overtaking her as she stared alertly at the blood dripping onto the unpolished wood floor. The younger woman’s rocking chair stopped creaking as she leaned forward to catch the whispered words that hung heavy in the evening air. Clinging with morbid fascination to every word that Alice knit into her recollection of the event. All the while, flowers bloomed from Alice’s knitting needles. Her yarn slowly morphed into something the women regarded as both beautiful and complex.

Alice stopped knitting. The porch suddenly felt empty in the absence of the noise, the silence threatening to overtake them. With a resigned sigh, she passed the needles off to the other woman. Another moment passed, before the rhythmic clicking of the needles began again. Resuming their conversation, the younger woman began speculating more about the boy’s reasoning behind his behavior, and Helen’s curious reaction. She pictured the scene in her head and relayed it out loud, adding in her own details as she went along. Alice nodded along in vacant agreement, and their story grew larger the longer they talked together.

The girl kneeled in the dirt nearby, gazing emotionlessly at the ants scurrying across the grass, and absentmindedly twirling a blade of grass between her fingers. Over and over, she heard the voice of her grandmother cautioning her, “People - male people - will try to give you strange gifts Helen. You do not need to accept them all.” Helen couldn’t even begin to unravel the implications of her grandmother’s odd advice, but she resented it nevertheless. It was as if Helen herself was being blamed for what the boy had done. It was an unwelcome thought, and not one that Helen wished to entertain. The buggy ride home from school that day had been overtaken by a forced stillness, every attempt at conversation extinguished by Helen’s unrelenting silence.

Still dazed by the day's events, Helen didn’t hear her mother’s soft footsteps walking toward her. It wasn’t until the woman softly tapped at Helen's shoulder, that she turned to acknowledge her. All of her thoughts about the boy froze, and she turned to give her mother full attention. The woman beamed as she held out a hand-knit sweater with satisfaction, rotating the garment so that the girl could admire it from every angle. It was a new pattern, one that Alice had been wishing to try for a while, believing that the simple imagery of the flowers would suit young Helen, and serve to complement her beauty. The woman held it out to her, urging her to try it on, and suggesting that she wear it to school tomorrow. Looking over at the sweater with a curious glance, Helen took in the new design. She didn’t like flowers, although they adorned nearly all of her clothes. Once again, she heard her grandmother's warning, echoing from that moment in the schoolhouse, “Be careful what gifts you take.”

Helen hesitated for a moment, wavering before she clasped the sweater in tiny fists, and put it on over her head. It itched. The rough material made her skin crawl, and it fit poorly. She felt weighed down by the overwhelming heaviness of it, as if it was pulling her down towards the earth. Tugging uncomfortably at the sleeves, the girl smiled up at her mother, and thanked her for the thoughtful gift.

The woman returned to the porch, seated herself comfortably in her rocking chair, and looked at the young girl from a distance. Both women admired the sweater that they had created together, remarking on how it brought out the color in her eyes. Complimenting each other on how perfectly it fit her, they gazed in admiration at what they had created, believing that Helen would simply adore it. Never thinking to ask her if she did.