Reflections of an Elderly Witch
And so it happened, one winter afternoon, that a woman of elder years sat in a wing-backed chair fat with cushions, and thought deeply. She thought about many things—about kings and princes, and whether she should do away with the lot of them; about fairies, and whether she should call and ask them to sit about inside her cottage house again, as they had made it look so cozy the last time; and, of course, about cats. But the last was because there was one sitting under a pile of yarn, tugging at the mounds of string that grew slowly smaller and smaller as the woman’s knotted fingers curled around wooden needles for the small magic of making a sweater. It was a small magic; infinitesimal in the grand scheme of the use to which she had put magic to in her time. It was, as she might call it, other magic. She could not say that knitting a sweater was any less magical per se ; singular threads became a woven whole, and that was indeed a for