I stop going to school. All the days feel the same, I am held on
a needle until another loop passes through me, waiting to be a
product, something of value. For we were saved in this hope,
but hope that is seen is not hope. I need something else, so my
grandmother tries to teach me to knit. One narrative theory is that
one never dies in knitting. Are you watching me, she says. Outside
there is no weather. But my watch has stopped, I say.