For those who wonder what I do at night, I will describe a typical evening. At nine I close the shop. At ten I make tea. At eleven I walk the length of the shop in the dark and touch each item as I pass: the mice, the scarves, the hats in their rows. At midnight I begin.
I take one thing down. I find the loose end. I draw it gently, loop after loop, and watch it come away in a long, patient line. By four, I have a heap of yarn the size of a sleeping cat, and a feeling of peace so deep that I could weep. In the morning, I wind it up and begin again. It is not sad. It is the opposite of sad. It is the opposite of finished.
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