It was back in the ’70s, and I must have been around eight or nine years old. My dad’s aunt would come to visit, and it was during one of those visits that she taught me how to knit. The plan was simple enough—to make a red scarf. I don’t think it ever really turned into a proper scarf, at least not in any conventional sense. Instead, the stitches on my needles were unpredictable: some rows had just a few stitches, others had a whole jumble, and every now and then a stitch would slip right off the needle. But Tante Maritha was always there—ready to rescue a fallen stitch, patiently guide my hands, and cheer me on whenever I got frustrated.

I still remember that little red knitting (I don’t dare to call it a knitting project) growing slowly, unevenly, and somehow magically longer with every session. It was messy, bizarre, and imperfect—but somehow that’s exactly what made it memorable. Even now, decades later, I can feel the rhythm of those first stitches, and the warmth of her encouragement that made me fall in love with knitting in the first place.