In a rocking chair even older than herself, Ivy sits, her body as still as the green apples in the fruit bowl. But her fingers move fast in an exact routine, a white cardigan, bejewelled with an array of different stitches extends from her knitting needles. There are raised bumps and an area with small intentional holes in a pattern. Every day she thanks God for sparing her the curse of arthritis that reduced her sister Marge's fingers to gnarled and painful twists of hardened skin and muscle, the bones crippled beyond repair. Though she sits sizing the garment on her own limbs, it is for Marge she knits today. By tea time she will be adding the pearled buttons and tying it into a parcel with pink ribbon. Tomorrow she starts with racing green wool to make the new school sweaters for her grandchildren. All the while she plays piano jazz in the background, only stopping to brew more tea and fetch another biscuit when her stomach rumbles loud enough to be detected by her aging ears.