Once There Was Nora Isabelle

Nora rocks back and forth in a warm spot of sunshine. Rustling leaves blanket her porch. All sounds beyond her front door sound like shoes slapping against stepping stones. Nora utters a groan and shuffles toward the peephole.

Her swollen right hand grips the brass knob and she slowly turns its once glossy surface. A smile sweeps away a grimace, but it isn’t necessary. Only a crisp autumn wind blows into Nora’s once vivid hazel eyes.

Nora returns to the mitten in garter stitch blue.

When foxgloves, primroses, and daffodils dance in distant gardens, Nora knits booties for the grandchild she has never met. Chiffchaffs and Chaffinches chirp on peeling porch rails. All sounds beyond her front door sound like chit-chat.

Nora wraps her hand over the brass knob disguising last fall’s finger marks. A slight smile wipes a crumpled face. Pale lips get ready for a rusted hello, but it isn’t necessary. Only three sparrows stand on a slice of wholemeal bread, hardened like a wooden raft drifting across an abandoned porch.

Nora returns to the bootie in garter stitch pink.

Trees stand naked circling a river. Nora stands naked too among photos of once happy families. Pearls snake over a dusty jewelry box as if recovering from a springtime splurge on raspberry cough syrup. Long, grey needles poke out of sewing baskets like Javelins waiting to be held. Hungry, thirsty for a good, quality yarn.

Nora stops waiting. Stops knitting in garter stitch pastels and falls asleep.