The Pale Tower
The wool on my table weighed four pounds, two ounces, and six threads of a color that did not match the rest. I counted the stitches as I usually did, marking the progress in a small ledger with a pencil that had no eraser, because mistakes were not to be corrected, only covered over. My mother’s shawl was a commission of the soul, a task that required the precision of a clerk and the patience...
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