Gemotions

The vibrant colors of the yarn spun in Eleanor’s stomach. She entered the craft room, a room once filled with the calming rhythm of knitting needles. Now, it was a chaotic mess of half-finished projects. Her teenage son, Leo, had taken up knitting – *her* knitting. He was attempting a complicated cable-knit sweater, a project she had abandoned months ago, the very project that had caused her so much grief. "Leo," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "What is the meaning of all this?" He just looked up, a look of pure joy on his face, oblivious to the storm brewing.