Languages are an interesting thing. Some haven’t been spoken in decades, centuries even, some were a thing of beauty to watch, because they are a language of movement and body language, rather than sound or written word. Some languages roll off the tongue while others still are harsh sounding and disjointed and almost assault the ear.

Hers though, was a language of an entirely different sort.

One could say that her language of choice was one that was a blend of many of the senses. There was a sound to it, a click clack that was most usually followed by a creak. One could argue that instead it was a language of body movements…the way her fingers moved, the way her body eased into relaxation most of the time as she communicated with it. Yet some would argue it was a visual language, not quite written on paper like most, but carefully crafted to leave behind a visual legacy you could read and see and touch.

Mostly though, it was a language of love.

It was this, in the early hours of a spring morning, that she was focused on. This language of love.

Mornings were her most favourite time of the day. Partially it was because of the silence, sure there were birds chirping, and the occasional dog bark…one of the horses in the barn in the distance might neigh, and off in another building a cow might moo. Those however, were nothing in comparison to the noises that would soon be filling the house behind her.

Thundering feet racing down stairs and heavy footsteps on floorboards…the clanging of dishes as breakfast was served…the chatter of voices. The entire space would soon erupt into absolute glorious chaos as her family, ragtag and mismatched as it was, emerged from beds and bedrooms to gather around the old worn table that had long ago been made for her with recycled wood and love and care to fill their bodies and hearts with nourishment to face the day before them.

They were partially her favourite too because of the the sights that awaited her. While the noise was sometimes difficult to be assaulted with so early in the day, the sight of sleepy droopy eyelids, hair sticking up in all directions, and the interesting outfits her youngest two dreamed up were one of her most favourite things to see.

Or Perhaps it was because of the smells. Beyond the scent of bacon being fried up crisp, and orange juice being freshly squeezed, beyond the scent of cool morning air or the flowers that were beginning to burst forth from the earth, there was that light scent of soap. The little ones smelled of Ivory, the gentle baby soft scent that greeted her as she hugged them and kissed the tops of their heads. The middle ones smelt of fancy mall soaps and body washes, the expensive ones young adults would buy because of the latest commercial or magazine ad they’d seen. But her most favourite was the spicy scent of old spice that awaited her every morning as she was enveloped in strong plaid clad arms and held, her cheek caressed with the fingers of a man who worked with his hands every day, the skin of them rough and calloused, but the touch as gentle as a feather as he stroked her cheek and looked into her eyes and whispered …”Good Morning, Beautiful.”

Thoughts of all of these things, the scents, sounds and sights of the morning to come swirled and danced in her head and made her smile.

She sighed softly then, her eyes returning to the piece in her hands. You see, some languages were written down, on paper, or parchment…some carved into stone tablets or scratched onto the surface of walls on the inside of caves. Hers though, her language of choice, was one carefully woven, on two sticks.

She would spend every spare moment in this spot. The creak of the old rocking chair beneath her, the click clack of the knitting needles in her hands, and write entire volumes of love letters to those she cared about, in every knit, and every purl. Sometimes the finished piece would be a blanket to wrap oneself up in love…other times a hat or mittens for bitter cold winter days and sometimes it was even to create plush little friends, an entire zoo of animals had been born from a pair of needles held in her talented hands and given away as gifts to the children she’d known.

And it was here she sat now, the click clack creak joining the chorus of chirps and whistles of the birds in the trees around her.

There was movement, however, in the corner of her field of vision.  First  a set of ears and a wet black nose came into her line of sight, the shepherd trotting along with a cat at it’s heels. It wasn’t so much that the two creatures were friends or even got along, but they tolerated each other nicely and were fiercely devoted to the human boy that trailed along behind them.

She watched, with a smile, as the three approached, setting her work down in her lap to study the boy who’d been saved not that long ago, marvelling at how he had grown in the time he’d been with her. His bony malnourished body had filled out, and he’d even begun to develop muscle and to build on it. His hair had grown to the point of needing to be trimmed soon, and his skin was showing a healthy lightly tanned colour, rather than the pale sickly colour he’d been when he first arrived.

She sighed happily, knowing that this meant the chaos was about to begin, and set her knitting into the basket at her feet and stood, waving to the boy before turning and making her way into the old farmhouse kitchen to begin breakfast.

Like butterflies emerging from cocoons, it was time for her family to wake and emerge from their beds.