We bought the yarn together a couple days before New Year's, from a craft store in Massachusetts where we were visiting your family. I had just taught myself to knit from a book and your mom was impressed. She kept pressuring you to take me to a "yahn store," so we finally went. You couldn't really understand what all the fuss was about, I could tell, as I pored over the yarns and tried to make up my mind. I told you my first project was going to be a scarf for you and this made you happy. You were a little more helpful then and we picked one out together, a chunky blue variegated wool.

You paid for it. This was somewhat embarrassing to me, but I had no money on that trip and all the coffees and T fares and (once) cute kneesocks you bought were kind of an extended Christmas gift to me. The yarn was $10 a skein and this blew your mind. It's not even a scarf yet, you said as we walked out the door.

The car didn't start, so we got a jump from a very chubby, very friendly guy in the parking lot and were almost late to the dinner date we had with your family. I sat across from your dad and watched your parents laugh together. I could imagine exactly what it would be like for us in ten years, married and happy and sitting around a table with kids of our own.

The yarn we picked knitted up beautifully -- textured and interesting. I worked on it through most of the plane ride home, even though my hands were sweaty the way they always get on planes and the 14-inch needles knocked annoyingly against the armrests. When we got home, I got caught up in the dizzying pace of work, school, commute and didn't work on the scarf for weeks.

Then: it was over.

And I didn't work on it the night I told you I was moving out. I didn't work on it the day after I told you I wanted to try again. I didn't work on it the week you left for Japan or the week that you came back. I didn't work on it during the time that we were crying all the time, crying or laughing, our noses running like broken playground water fountains.

I picked it up again the week you were showing the place to new roommates, so I could sit on the couch and listen without seeming obvious. I asked if you were still going to want the scarf when it was done. You said yes. The yarn was expensive.

But I put it down again.

I didn't work on it the night I stayed at my new place for the first time, when my stomach hurt so bad but I couldn't eat, when all I could do was curl up in a ball and cry and sleep. I didn't work on it the day I went to visit you and we hugged and I remembered in a sudden rush how good you felt. And I didn't work on it all those nights I wasn't sorry to be away from you or on the mornings when I woke up and was happy to be alone.

But I'm working on it now.

For the last week I've been spending at least half an hour on it every night, sometimes more. I'm going to finish it this time, going to send it to you, show you that I haven't forgotten, that I still care. Maybe you'll just throw it in your closet. Maybe you'll give it away. But as I sit working on it, stitch by stitch, row by row, I somehow know it won't be lost on you.