I start sewing at the dining room table while my child naps. As I sew the fabric stretches and tears. A piece of yarn pokes through. My hands hold the yarn in place methodically looping back and forth. The same action repeated tirelessly, mindlessly. I sit and loop. I slide my hand through the stocking as the fabric calls to be inspected. My body becomes the piece. The yarn gently moves as I twist my wrist changing form, adapting to the imposed stress of movement. The loose threads find their place after each sway. My child cries, and my body responds.