I lost my hands & knit replacement ones from spiders' threads, stronger than steel but soft as lambs' wool. Catching as they do on nails and your collarbone, you don't seem to like their rough warm presence on your cheek or thigh. I've asked you if you minded, you've said no (your face a table laid with burnt meat, bread so stale it could break a hand). Remember your senile mother's face above that table? I'd say she got the meaning of that look. You'd rather not be touched by these rough gloves, the only way I have to knit a love against whatever winters we may enter like a silkworm in a spider's blackened maw.