Little Ones
rating: +26+x

The room's dark. Oh, I'm sure there's some light on in here, some brief glint of afternoon sun through the cellar window or some long-gone child's twinkling discarded toy. But for me, the room's dark. It's warm and dark, and there are cobwebs stuck to my shawl. No one else has been down here in a while. I sit on a wooden rocking chair that doesn't rock anymore.

My fingers move frantically. They carry needle and thread like a pianist playing his symphony. My fingers dance and spin as the yarn and cloth are woven together, forming cute shapes. Pulling stuffing from my belly, I fill the figures. I put love in every stitch. I sew runes and rhymes into the cotton fluff inside. I place buttons where the eyes should go. I put on bows and ribbons, little wool sweaters and felt shoes. The little ones awaken.

Some of them can move on their own. Some of them can't move until I attach their flexible limbs. Some of them will never move perfectly, and that's okay. Each of them is what they're meant to be. None of them can talk, at least none yet, and that's okay too. I haven't figured the talking out yet. Maybe I'll learn a new stitch for that in the coming months. It must be in high demand out there.

The little ones need love and closeness. There's all levels of intimacy and protection with the little ones. Some are right next to your dreams. Some are right under your skin. Some are right around the corner. Some are just right. Well, they're all right, if you look at it in that way. But I don't look at it in any way.

Eventually the little ones leave. They always do, and that's fine with me. Sometimes they crawl or skitter out. Sometimes they walk, sometimes they stroll or run or tumble or flutter. I give each one a tag, a note or message, to help they who finds the little ones take care of them. They're not my little ones once they've left the needles. They're the little ones.

I just keep on making the little ones, even after all the old little ones have left. It's life knit large, so to speak. The room's dark and warm and the little ones dance about. They explore the storage cellar, the children's museum upstairs, and the world out there. But I don't leave. I stay behind and knit. The Blind Babushka stays behind and knits.

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