When you knitted me
and thought of the son you loved
with fingers and strings and tears,
to reach, then to knit me again into gloves -
I was scared I would fall apart and fray
with strands like memories that haunt and stray.
So I thought I was his present - for you
bought my strings with ribbons too,
packing me, so carefully, in a box of colours.
I used to imagine the wrinkled contours
of his smile when he sees me and wears me...
but I never came out of the box.
I haven't commented on a poem for a long time but this one just caught me in the throat and travelled down to my gut. The simplicity of the story is very relatable and that is what just grabbed my attention and kept me there...