A/N: This is a little one shot that I wrote for richonnefics' Michonne Fanfiction Appreciation Week on Tumblr. This story hasn't been beta'd so all mistakes are mine. As always, please consider this a work in progress. Thank you for reading, and hopefully, reviewing. I hope you enjoy.
When she spotted the yarn tote, sitting untouched in the craft room of the abandoned two story craftsman home they were searching, she hadn't expected to find such treasure. Inside the bag were multiple skeins of the finest cashmere yarn. It was dyed a deep shade of azure blue that brought to mind Rick's eyes, and cloudless summer skies. Michonne fingered the fine fibers with reverence. In her old life, this kind of yarn would've been a rare treat. She'd only allowed herself that kind of indulgence for special projects, made for special people. In this life, the act of knitting itself seemed like the ultimate indulgence. In this life, her hands were used to destroy, not to create. At least, not the way she used to. Where would she even find the time? She tilted her head to listen for sounds of her friends in the house and smiled when she heard Spencer and Rosita downstairs whispering to each other. They were currently pretending not to be involved in some sort of bizarre mating ritual, and Michonne found it terribly amusing. She figured they'd be at it for a while, so she could afford to sit and indulge for a moment in the decadence of bamboo knitting needles and cashmere yarn.
Knitting had always been something special to Michonne. She learned to knit when she was just a little girl. Her grandmother had been an extraordinary yarn artist. Every winter, she sent Michonne to school wearing the best knit hats on her head. One year it was a bright orange goldfish, the next, a frog. Michonne loved those hats so much that she'd begged her granny to teach her how to make them. Granny had some pretty firm thoughts on the type of work that was done by idle hands, and so was happy to pass the skill on to her granddaughter. During their lessons, Granny would share her memories of being a young girl growing up in the segregated south. She'd tell Michonne stories about life during the depression, and how her family had struggled to make ends meet. She recalled working as a young domestic and witnessing the sacrifices women made in their own lives to care for other people's families. Michonne would craft beautiful yarn creations while she listened to her grandmother tell tales of womanhood, of pain, and of the quiet strength that comes from humility. It was during those lessons that Michonne first discovered her deep ancestral tie to the fighting spirit that ran through her blood.
Michonne had stopped knitting after her grandmother died. It just hadn't felt the same without her. It wasn't until she'd learned that she was pregnant with Andre that she'd even thought about picking up a pair needles again. She'd left the doctor's office in a daze, and had gone directly to the craft store by her house. She'd bought several skeins of baby yarn, and had broken into tears when the cashier asked her who she was knitting the blanket for. Her pregnancy hadn't been planned, and fear had taken up residence in her subconscious. Looking back, it made perfect sense that she had chosen that moment to start knitting again, just when she'd needed to connect to her grandmother's strong creative force. Michonne had knit all through her pregnancy. It had been a delicate pregnancy, and the repetitive motions that knitting required had soothed her. When she was eventually resigned to bed rest, the knitting became her lifeline. She poured all of her love, and all of her hope, into knitting an heirloom blanket for the tiny life inside of her, fighting for a chance. When she'd finally held her baby boy in her arms, his tiny body swaddled in a blanket made by her own hands, she'd known that her grandmother's strength had been passed on to her son. Now, of course, she had no blanket, she had no son, and as she felt the hot sting of tears trailing down her cheeks, she found herself wondering if she even had any of her grandmother's strength left in her.
"Michonne, are you okay?" Rosita stood in the doorway. Her perfectly tweezed brows were furrowed in concern.
Michonne stood and cleared her throat, embarrassed to be caught in such a private moment. "Yeah, I'm fine," she assured her with a small laugh.
Rosita entered the small room and crossed to Michonne. "You don't look fine. You want to talk about it?"
Michonne smiled at the woman standing before her. She didn't really know Rosita all that well, but she knew that she was smart, and strong, and Michonne was glad to consider her family. She trusted her, and sincerely wanted to get to know her better. She just wasn't entirely comfortable opening up to people.
"I'm okay," Michonne reassured her friend, "I'm just thinking about my life and how it used to be. You ever do that?"
Rosita gave her an understanding nod. "Yeah, I do. Sometimes more than I'd like." She gestured to the yarn Michonne still held in her hands. "Did you knit?"
She nodded. "My grandmother taught me. My mom didn't really have a knack for it, but it was my favorite past time. I'd always kinda hoped that I'd have a daughter to teach someday, but I had a son. You know… before." Michonne cleared her throat and dropped her head to hide the tears that had suddenly formed in her eyes. She was determined not to cry over this, especially while she was out on a supply run. There was work to be done. Outside of the walls, emotions were a liability. These types of displays were better kept inside the safety of her own home, preferably while she was wrapped up in Rick's arms.
Rosita gave her a soft smile and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure your son would've been a great knitter."
Michonne thought of a slightly older Andre, sitting patiently at her side, his little tongue pinched between his teeth as he concentrated on wrapping the yarn around the skinny knitting needles. She was surprised at the spontaneous belly laugh that bubbled out of her.
"What," Rosita questioned with a laugh of her own, "boys can knit if they want to."
"Yes, I suppose they can." Michonne sighed and closed her eyes as she thought of all the things her sweet boy would never get the chance to do, of all the things he'd never have the chance to learn. The pain of his unrealized potential sat heavily on her heart and caused her stomach to knot in pain. It wasn't until she felt Rosita's arms wrap around her that she knew just how much she needed the comfort the other woman offered. Her tears fell freely, soaking the collar of Rosita's button down shirt.
"You know," Rosita's voice was quiet as she pulled away from Michonne and gripped her shoulders with a loose hold, "I admire you so much. You are an amazing woman, Michonne. You're strong and capable. Everyone trusts you and values your opinions. You've got your shit together, girl." She gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, "And they way your are with your family…" She trailed off shaking her head.
Michonne lifted her eyes from the mud stained carpet and looked at Rosita with a questioning gaze. "What do you mean?"
"I see the way you take care of those boys. It's obvious that you have a lot of love to give. They're lucky to have you. Carl adores you, and Rick obviously thinks you hung the moon. And you and I both know that it's only a short matter of time until Judith is calling you Mommy." Rosita dropped her hands from Michonne's shoulder before she continued, her voice a bit softer than before. "I know you've lost a lot, but you've gained a lot too. The pain won't ever go away, but it lessens. And you, my friend, are allowed to be happy." She grabbed Michonne's hands and looked into her eyes, "You can still teach your daughter to knit. Or, your son, for that matter."
The two women looked at each other with laughter dancing in their eyes. Michonne hugged Rosita tightly, completely overwhelmed by her kind words. "I can't tell you how much that means to me. Thank you, Rosita."
"Any time, chica."
Rosita was right. Losing Andre was never going to stop hurting, but she didn't have to stop living because of it. She had love in her life. She had a beautiful family, and warm, considerate friends. It was okay to move forward. It was okay to indulge, to enjoy the soft caress of cashmere against your skin. It was okay to create again. Her grandmother would want that for her. She wanted that for herself. Michonne grabbed the yarn tote and placed the strap on her shoulder with a smile.
I wonder how Rick would look in a knit beanie…?
A/N: That's it. If you read and reviewed my other stories, thank you so much for your kind words. I do read them, and I appreciate every one. If you haven't read my other stories, please check them out and let me know what you think. Thanks again!