I watched her hands move skillfully, weaving the yarn through the taught threads. The monotony and delicate work reminded me of my mother. Dear Mum seemed to have Frigg, the goddess of motherhood, always at her side. When I was very young and I watched her weave, she’d simultaneously weave tales of how Frigg bestowed the gift of special yarn to mortal women whom she favored.
Frigg must have favored Mum. Her yarn looked no different from the rest, but whenever I held a blanket she’d woven I’d feel—oh, I’d feel things I couldn’t describe. Beautiful things that filled up and overflowed the wide, gaping emptiness inside me, just for a moment. Just for a moment I would feel alive.