I've been knitting on my lunch breaks this week, which you may be surprised to learn is not something I often do. I'm working on a stole in a particularly soft and wonderful chunky wool, and it's such a pleasing change from all this thin and overly delicate lace stuff I've been knitting all summer. It's thick and soft and vibrant in cozy browns and warm beiges and pinkish burgundies and a pleasingly slubby white silk peeping out here and there. It's thick and warm and soft and makes me long for late October, early November, and having this thing wrapped around my shoulders or curled up against my neck.
I've been perching on benches overlooking Morningside Park and it's been cool enough to wish I had long sleeves, and a smattering of dried leaves have caught in my hair and swirled up against my feet.
Two nights ago -- Monday night I guess -- I woke up in the wee hours and couldn't figure out what was wrong. Eventually I realized I was cold, for the first time in three months, and went routing through the closet for a blanket to crawl under.
So many people seem to be sad at the waning of yet another summer, but I am ready for crisp afternoons and cold nights and hot cider and sweaters. That isn't really so weird, is it?
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