My mother is a knitter.

I inherited my racing thoughts and tapping, fidgeting fingers from her. Our minds are shaped the same way, moving too quickly, nearly impossible to capture and observe. But she has taught herself to pin down her thoughts with the jab of a knitting needle, to pen them in with a fence constructed out of cables and worsted weight yarn. When she is knitting, the idle fidgeting of her hand transforms itself into quick, purposeful motions. Every motion is meaningful: each flick of her wrist and twist of her finger serves to guide stitch after stitch into their proper places.

My mother loves sheep.

It comes with the territory, I suppose. She wants to know every step of the path that eventually leads to her favorite sweater. The sheep’s wool that is carded and dyed and spun and finally stitched together by her own two hands. In the back of my closet, there is a large trash bag full of wool, given to us by my sister’s friend who raises sheep. Although my mother does not spin her own yarn (yet — I’m sure it’s only a matter of time), she was eager to own the wool just for the sake of having it. She dreams of retiring and going on a trip to the Shetland Isles: not to go on a cruise, but to visit the sheep and buy their yarn and look at people’s sweaters. Sometimes, seemingly out of nowhere, she will text me pictures of sheep. I think if our backyard were a little larger, she would buy some of her own.

My mother knitted me a sweater once.

I picked out the pattern and the yarn myself. It is purple (my favorite color), with a lacy yoke and sleeves that remind me of princesses. She spent hours on it, crafting it specially for me. I didn’t wear it very often. It was slightly itchy, and I discovered too late that I didn’t like the silhouette. But every time I did wear it (only for special events: a flute recital, my sister’s honor society induction), she would smile and comment. When I left for college, I left the sweater back home with her. I think she will wear it more than I would.

My mother is a light sleeper.

When I got home late at night, all I would have to do is tap lightly on her door and she would wake up. One time when I was especially late, I decided to let her sleep. In the morning, she was angry. She would rather have me disturb her already fitful sleep than not know when I was home safe. When I was younger, when I had bad dreams, I would knock on her door with the same light tap, and she would let me crawl into bed and curl up against her. When I got older and stopped coming to her with my bad dreams, sometimes she would come and lie in my bed instead.

Now her door is too far away for me to knock on in the middle of the night, and I wish I had packed the sweater she had knitted me.