Last night, I dreamt that I had finished the christening shawl.
It was washed, blocked, ends worked in. A hint of lavender permeated the tens of thousands of tiny stitches. From across the lake came a magnificent summer breeze, tickling the scalloped edges and making them dance.
I tossed it into the air and watched it drift, like a homing angel, back into my arms. I spread it out before me on the green grass, and noticed that I had spelled two of the words in the inscription incorrectly.
I woke up in a cold sweat, jumped out of bed, turned on the lights, grabbed the shawl and checked three times to make certain that there were no typographical errors in my knitting. Ten minutes later, back in bed, I was still shaking. Fifteen minutes later, I got up and checked it again.
The shawl will be finished and blocked by tomorrow night, just in time to head to Maine for the christening. But I've become a little afraid to actually wrap this thing around the baby. If it's at all true that the Spirit of the Knitter pervades his work, Abigail will grow up to be a neurotic, compulsive copy editor.