With my winding steps, with each push of my bike pedals, with every cab ride I have taken, with every car I’ve gotten into, this city has knit me a story; it’s streets no less than needles, it’s alleys no less than looms.
There are reinforced stitches around pubs and coffee houses, there are quiet and soft blankets around hills and parks where I’ve spent so many hours asleep or reading or holding hands. There are fresh threads, tender and vibrating to parts of our cities west and east and north to new friends, there are old, dusty and fraying strings to lost and forgotten loves that I only ever trip over and shake my head at.
There are dropped stitches near those places I don’t go, by choice, by memory, by fear, by sadness, there is heightened tension in the stitches and the pattern where I work, where I stress.
My city has knit my memories, my story, into it. I wondered as I drove about this week how exactly I would leave such a city, a city that has made me and my memories so much a part of it’s knit and pearl, how the drop stitch and double crochet of this city could every be recreated anywhere else.
Sitting across from a friend I love on Saturday morning, she tied a veritable string to my finger. She handed me a blanket crafted of granny squares, made across this city, this province, and others; made over months, over moves, over triumphs and accidents and with love. And she told me with her hug that that string around my finger stretched very very far. And I could travel, and I could stray, and I could leave in 3 days; but this city and she would still be here, knitting, waiting; it’s streets no less than needles, it’s alleys no less than looms.