Note to Myself # 23

Apparently lots of women have been knitting recently.

Thousands of pink hats with cat ears

have been created as a statement of disgust

with Donald Trump's crude, misogynistic comment

about grabbing women by the p*ssy.

I've always found knitting a relaxing and healing pastime.

Way back in 1984, after having a premature baby boy die

in the neonatal intensive care unit after five weeks 

of fighting mightily for his life

after a ham-fisted surgeon botched the insertion 

of a central line, made poor Blake nearly bleed out

and sent him into cardiac arrest,

well. . . .

family videos from that time always recorded me

with knitting needles in hand.

I made sweaters galore.

The rhythmic click of the needles

quieted my mind and soothed my aching soul.

Then, I could manage the complicated patterns 

of an Irish fisherman knit,

not without concentration, of course,

and determination,

but back then they were doable.

I tried in vain to do one a few years ago

and found that my powers of concentration

have been zapped.

I was lucky to get to the end of a hideously complicated row

before I was drifting somewhere in my mind.

I have new appreciation for those gifted yarn artists

who create masterpieces in yarn.

As for me, I'll stick to simple scarves

and kitty-cat hats.

The cats will hate me.