Call Me Kat

The knitting needles clicked rhythmically as the red yarn wrapped around them, twisting into tiny knots that formed the fabric of a small woolen sweater. It was unmistakably for a child. Her hands moved with practiced ease, but her thoughts wandered, weaving images of the little one who would one day wear it.

The park was peaceful—a perfect sanctuary for her thoughts and her craft. The soft rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird punctuated the stillness. She glanced up to see a couple approaching along the path, walking hand in hand. They moved like young lovers, but their graying hair and weathered expressions suggested otherwise. They seemed close, comfortable in each other’s company, their bond as visible as the sunlight filtering through the trees.

The woman’s free hand rested lightly on the man’s arm. Her touch was gentle, meant to soothe. But something was wrong. The man’s face was streaked with tears. He wept openly, unashamed, though his pace quickened when he noticed her watching. The woman struggled to keep up with him, her concern written in her every step.

The knitter’s gaze lingered as they passed. “The poor man,” she thought. The needles clicked steadily in her hands, the soft red wool growing into something whole, something warm. Yet the encounter left a shadow in her mind.

They strolled through the park in silence, hand in hand. Sunlight dappled the ground beneath the trees, scattering patches of warmth across the path. It was quieter than usual—or maybe the quiet was within them, drowning out the world.

She glanced at him, his face heavy with unspoken pain. Her hand tightened gently around his, a small but steady anchor. As they passed an older woman sitting alone on a weathered bench, her knitting caught her eye. The vivid red yarn danced between the woman’s needles, forming a child-sized sweater. A faint smile played on the knitter’s lips, but it only deepened the ache in her husband’s eyes.

She felt his grip tighten. A silent signal. He was breaking again. She lifted her free hand to his arm, a gesture of reassurance, but it wasn’t enough. His pace quickened, almost frantic, as if he could outrun the memories that clawed at him. She hurried to keep up, helpless to stop the flood of sorrow that was consuming him once more.

Why? The question reverberated endlessly in his mind, unanswered, relentless.

He hadn’t realized they’d reached the park until her steady hand reminded him she was still there, still holding on to him, sharing her strength. Her presence was his lifeline, but even that felt fragile against the weight of his grief.

His eyes scanned the park without focus, seeing everything and nothing. The runners, the sunbathers, the laughter of children in the distance—all of it blurred into the background. But then, something caught his attention.

The woman on the bench. She wasn’t remarkable, just an ordinary older woman, sitting quietly and knitting. It wasn’t her that struck him—it was the sweater in her hands. That tiny, vivid red garment.

It was like a punch to his chest. The memories surged forward, unbidden and unstoppable. He could see her—his little girl—running and laughing in this very park, her favorite red sweater bright against the green grass. He could hear her voice, feel her presence so vividly it was almost unbearable. But she wasn’t here anymore.

The tears came, hot and blinding. He couldn’t hold them back this time. The woman on the bench had noticed him, and shame made him quicken his steps, but it wasn’t enough. The grief had him now, pulling him under.

His wife’s hand tightened on his, grounding him, but it couldn’t ease the sharp ache in his chest. This park was her favorite place. The last place he’d seen her alive. And that sweater—he could still see her wearing it, still feel her in it.

The path blurred before him as he stumbled forward, needing to get away, yet knowing he could never escape.