Knitting

Another family gathering with Helen and Rob.

He straightens his tie in the mirror and surveys the couches and tables and plates of carefully arranged hors d'oeuvres. Everything is ready. She already knows that everything is ready. She sits quietly in her favorite chair, with the careworn seat and armrests. An unobtrusive pile of yarn rests against her toes as the needles twist and spin in her small hands.

The men and women and children tightly wrapped in their snowsuits push in from the cold, all varying degrees of fashionable in their lateness. They shoulder their way into the room, and position themselves as best as they can in front of the cheese plates. As more bodies enter, the room warms. Rob waves his arms and gestures warmly, sharing and receiving stories with the finesse of a skilled entertainer. He skirts about the room on nimble toes, moving from group to group, dazzling all. Helen watches with sharp eyes and a soft smile over her slowly growing tea cozy.

She is no diva. She does not need the focus of all those eyes and aimless gestures. Her movement, like her speech, is small and calculated. Certainly, when the friends and family say their goodbyes and shuffle out, leaving only slushy little puddles behind them, they will warmly discuss how much fun that Rob is, and how splendid a host.

"But that Helen," they say, "She's sharp as a tack."