sons could be birds,
taken broken up to the mountain
taken broken up to the mountain
How is he? Nathaniel hopes to skate right past this question. Maybe hoping for this is hoping for more grace than he usually exhibits, but he cannot find an answer he likes. In truth: he doesn't know. Bad, is how he is. How he has always been. Just barely making it by. He has no one to give him orders, now, and no one he wants to take orders from, anyway. Just his elderly dog. "It's good to see you,". He says instead. He tosses the remains of the apple core over his shoulder and wipes his hand on his pants.
Fortunately, her current endeavor provides a distraction. A welcome one. Nate leans over to peer at the tangle of fiber, his eyebrows quirking ever so slightly toward each other. A glint of something like laughter almost makes it out of the depths of his dark eyes. "You have to?" he asks, and the laughter is there in his voice, too. Muted but nonetheless present. He raises his eyes to meet hers, wondering briefly if this is some kind of punishment.
He looks back down to the mess in her hands, his expression serious again. "Have you done that before?" The obvious answer is no, but Nathaniel is in no position to judge. He hasn't, either. "My mother used to knit," he says, thinking aloud. He remembers the rhythmic click-click of the needles, the occasional pause as she went back to count her stitches. Her pieces had always looked more… object shaped than whatever Melita is doing.
Fortunately, her current endeavor provides a distraction. A welcome one. Nate leans over to peer at the tangle of fiber, his eyebrows quirking ever so slightly toward each other. A glint of something like laughter almost makes it out of the depths of his dark eyes. "You have to?" he asks, and the laughter is there in his voice, too. Muted but nonetheless present. He raises his eyes to meet hers, wondering briefly if this is some kind of punishment.
He looks back down to the mess in her hands, his expression serious again. "Have you done that before?" The obvious answer is no, but Nathaniel is in no position to judge. He hasn't, either. "My mother used to knit," he says, thinking aloud. He remembers the rhythmic click-click of the needles, the occasional pause as she went back to count her stitches. Her pieces had always looked more… object shaped than whatever Melita is doing.
