The Crone

                The crone knits in a dark prism. Into it no light enters. From it none escapes. She knits with a yarn that contains all the colors of the universe, a yarn she cannot see. She knits sightless, hands working assuredly despite her blindness, despite eyes that died and receded long ago from lack of use. She focuses on nothing but her work. It's been long… so long. She remembers not who she was before, nor where. Now only her task matters.

                She is to knit.

                Each day she finishes a piece. Or she supposes it is day, and supposes it's finished. As when she sleeps, whatever it is she worked on is gone, replaced by more spools of the same yarn. And she begins again, not knowing what she made. What it is used for. She never knows what she creates that day will look like, or why it is she does this all over again. All other needs have left her. Only one word gives her purpose, dimly echoing in her consciousness over and over. One she hears ceaselessly, though whether it is her own mind or another that speaks, she knows and cares not.

                Knit… Knit…

                Outside the prism, everything fizzles and bursts and trembles. Outside the prism, is its container, a small pinprick of light in the void, on the edge of becoming. There is a beginning arriving. A burgeoning sense of consciousness that piece by piece is woven. Time passes, and it becomes more aware of itself and the crone at its heart. Its mother… its… daughter? Somehow she is both. As it grows, it becomes more aware of what it had been before, what it had lost, what it was regaining. And as it swelled with pride, the energy within it unleashed.

                And suddenly, rapidly, it becomes everything and everywhere. A mind that fades as soon as it was born. With its dying words, born inwards by the ecstasy of creation, it floats a thought inward, to the Crone. She continues to knit. It is all she knows.

                Thank you… mother.

                The crone pauses, if only briefly, before picking back up her needles and beginning a piece afresh. But, as she continues, her eyes glimmer like the stars around her. Her prism had expanded. She knits adrift in the universe's expanse.

                As she knits, her latest work dotted with her tears. She weeps, she weeps though she cannot quite say why.

                And on Earth, on barren, empty, still forming and still molten Earth, it begins to rain.