(no subject)
Dimly, Charlie remembers her Momma teaching her to knit. She'd been five, maybe six, so the sickness had already set in hard, and Charlie remembers printed headscarves and things that beeped and hummed around the bed. She remember sitting curling close and watching her Momma knit, the click of the needles, the way that her fingers had moved. She remembers burrowing closer against her side, pressing her face in against her skinny ribs and breathing in the scent of her, perfume and soap and something sweet that Charlie lately came to recognise as 'sick'. She just enjoyed being close to her. She just wanted to stay close.
Her Momma must have died not long after that memory. Charlie finds herself thinking about her more and more, the closer she gets to having her own baby. It's probably natural that she finds herself thinking about the days before her Momma died. Sometimes, she finds herself thinking about childbirth, the things that can go wrong. She wakes up breathless and Ianto holds her close until it quiets.
Knitting, though. Knitting's calming.
She finds herself sitting in Lily Strombeck's rocking chair, rocking with one foot, her knitting in her lap. It's supposed to be booties, but what it actually is is more holes than knitting, but it's a quiet thing, something to do with her hands. It's keeping her awake and it's reminding her that, in less than three months, she'll have a baby of her own.
Humming to herself, she unpicks her last few stitches and then starts again. It doesn't bother her not to be good at something. It's the trying that counts.
ooc: find her in the rec-room. Feel free to offer knitting advice.
Her Momma must have died not long after that memory. Charlie finds herself thinking about her more and more, the closer she gets to having her own baby. It's probably natural that she finds herself thinking about the days before her Momma died. Sometimes, she finds herself thinking about childbirth, the things that can go wrong. She wakes up breathless and Ianto holds her close until it quiets.
Knitting, though. Knitting's calming.
She finds herself sitting in Lily Strombeck's rocking chair, rocking with one foot, her knitting in her lap. It's supposed to be booties, but what it actually is is more holes than knitting, but it's a quiet thing, something to do with her hands. It's keeping her awake and it's reminding her that, in less than three months, she'll have a baby of her own.
Humming to herself, she unpicks her last few stitches and then starts again. It doesn't bother her not to be good at something. It's the trying that counts.
ooc: find her in the rec-room. Feel free to offer knitting advice.