They met every Tuesday.
It was a familiar sight to the young mothers coming in to the library for the half-hour respite that the “Tales and Tots” reading circle gave them, and to the job hunters accessing the computers at the tables beside the check-out counter, and even the transient homeless coming in for shelter on bitter winter mornings always smiled their hellos as the women passed by.
They would sit in the vinyl-covered easy chairs clumped together at the very back of the reference section, each with their knitting on their laps. Just three very old women who spent Tuesday mornings helping, with their knobby, arthritic hands, to wind off balls of brightly coloured wool, to knit crazily-patterned scarves and sweaters, or soft pastel baby booties, or dark, masculine winter hats, all the while talking softly to each other in a language that no one else in town recognized, but that the head librarian, who had once been to New York City for a conference, said she thought might be Croatian or something like that.
Every so often, one of the women, in response to an inquiring tone from another woman, would pick up the large, black-handled scissors from the low table in front of them and snip off the trailing edge of yarn.
And outside somewhere, for someone, down the block or a thousand miles away, the pain of living was ended.