Six minutes in, I listen to the chitchat as my fingers move unwatched. I make notes I’ll never read. I make appropriate sounds. My mind is strips of saris washed, torn, and twisted. Magenta, turquoise, fuchsia, marigold, and an inky black, the yarn explodes in random clashing colors. Conversations weave in and out and all around me. My lids are heavy. My stomach grumbles discontented. Up and over, down and under, my mind shuttles to a peaceful place.

The meeting dwindles down. My eyes open. My thumb is stained mysterious scarlet. Recycled sari yarn is skein beautiful but ugly knitted. I examine my handiwork of bristled spider legs of fiber. Sighing, I pull out the needles and begin unwinding the darkness. My mind becomes skein beautiful.