“Emma was making this for you,” he said.
I touched the wool.
The stitches were uneven.
My daughter had never been good at knitting.
“She wanted to finish it, but then she got sick,” Arthur added.
I laughed through my tears.
The stitches were uneven.
“Ironically, she always started projects she couldn’t finish.”
Arthur smiled.
“Would you like to finish it together?”
“Do you know how to knit?”
“Not a thing.”
“Neither do I.”
We both laughed.
It was my first real laugh since her funeral.
“Do you know how to knit?”
***
Three weeks later, I returned to Arthur’s house with groceries.
“Dad?” I called.
He appeared in the hallway.
“Hello, Angel.”
Calling him “Dad” still felt foreign, but each time I said it, the word came more easily.
I returned to Arthur’s house.
We started having lunch together every Sunday.
He told me stories about my childhood, and I told him about Emma’s.
